m 






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Class TR lH& 

Book. £A 

Copyright^ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT; 



NARRATIVE AND LYRIC 
POEMS 

FOR STUDENTS 

EDITED BY 

S. S. SEWARD, Jr. 

ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH IN STANFORD UNIVERSITY 




NEW YORK 



HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 

1909 



'<** * C 






Copyright, 1909, 

BY 

HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY 



QUINN & BODEN COMPANY PRESS 
RAHWAY, N. J. 



LIBRARY Of CONGRESS 
Two Conies Received 

JUN 28 )8U$ 

KlASil A' 



PREFACE 

To stumble unexpectedly upon a poem, or a volume 
of poems, with the sudden thrill of discovery, to 
wander among the works of the poet " as one seeking 
the face of a friend in a crowd," — this is the approach 
to poetry that all agree brings the happiest results. 
That poems may be profitably " studied," however, 
is not universally acknowledged. This is wholly 
natural; for treatment too vague is obviously likely to 
be unstimulating, and treatment too pedantic is sure 
to kill spontaneous interest. This volume is compiled 
with a full realization of these besetting dangers, yet 
in the conviction that poetry can be studied with 
profit. Furthermore, it attempts to give some con- 
crete suggestions toward the realization of this ideal. 

It should first be explained that the greatest en- 
couragement for the compilation of these poems came 
from the recent action of the National Conference on 
College Entrance Examinations, introducing lyric and 
shorter narrative poems among the types of literature 
to be studied in the schools. I have based the con- 
tents of this volume, therefore, upon certain recom- 
mendations of the Conference, — the fourth Book of 
the Golden Treasury, a selected list of Browning's 
poems, and several narrative poems. Naturally, the 



iv PREFACE 

following of a list made out by others has resulted in a 
table of contents that does not represent in all cases my 
own free choice ; but I have supplemented the poems 
recommended by the Conference with others, — all the 
old ballads, for example, and the poems in playful 
mood, in the hope that each user of the volume may 
find scope in which to choose and reject as he sees fit. 
These are the conditions, then; and the purpose is to 
suggest a way of approaching poetry. What this way 
is may best be understood by examining the plan of 
editing. 

In the first place, I have arranged the poems in 
groups according to subject, or mood, or perhaps 
form, — a grouping that does not attempt to be wholly 
logical, but one which makes it easy for a reader who 
has found something that pleases him to look near it 
for more of the same kind. Is not the natural group- 
ing of poems according to the thing that they express, 
rather than the writer or literary period that produced 
them ? And is not the transition easier from a sonnet 
of Shakspere to one of Wordsworth than from 
Milton's sonnet, On the Late Massacre in Piedmont 
to L' Allegro or to Lovelace's To Lucasta, on Going to 
the Wars? 

In the notes I have had a double purpose. I have 
tried to make the poems more real by telling how and 
when certain ones were written, or by recounting such 
circumstances as associate them interestingly with the 
lives of their authors. In the case of some of the 
most important poems I have introduced interpretation 



PREFACE V 

comment, the aim of which — such as there is of it — 
is to be not so much a piecemeal explanation of details 
as an indication of some significant aspect of the poem 
as a whole. Even where, as in the longer poems, 
words and allusions must be explained, I have, when- 
ever convenient, grouped details of a single kind to- 
gether, so that the unity of impression may be im- 
paired as little as possible. 

Following the notes are a series of " Suggested 
Studies." These presuppose some familiarity with 
the poems individually, and point the way toward com- 
parative study. Here generalization enters ; and 
here, consequently, difficulty begins. But in most 
cases the generalization is either supplied or frankly 
indicated, and the student's object should be to verify 
it by the concrete instance. It is of little moment 
whether the student discovers his generalizations for 
himself: it is of the greatest importance that he realize 
that no generalization has meaning or validity for him 
unless he can test it concretely by his own experience. 
The studies suggested are few in number, but they can 
be supplemented or adapted freely at will. 

Finally comes the " General Survey," in which are 
reviewed certain of the larger aspects of poetry 
illustrated by this volume. Its purpose is to lead to 
some understanding of a few simple principles of 
poetry, — its scope, its varieties, its ways of trans- 
muting life into art. Discussion of these matters in 
the abstract, as matters of theory, may be plausible 
and interesting, but is not sufficient. It has seemed to 



VI PREFACE 

me that consideration of these broader principles, 
instead of being the introduction to the study of 
poetry, is in reality its final goal. Such consideration 
should come last, therefore, and be based on famil- 
iarity with an adequate body of poetry; more than 
that, the general principles should be shown to spring 
directly from the poems themselves. The poems can 
then illustrate and illuminate the principles, and show 
them to be not words, merely, but real ideas. 

Is it necessary, in view of what has been said, to 
urge the need of personal tact and judgment in di- 
recting the study of poetry? If at any point interest 
fails, that point is the place to stop, or at least to pause 
and try to discover in what other direction natural 
interest leads. The poems themselves are the obvious 
starting-point: among them it is always possible to 
wander at will, " as one seeking the face of a friend 
in a crowd." If one does not find friends there, 
nothing is to be gained by trying to " study " poetry. 
If they are found, however, further intercourse with 
them is a matter of genuine human interest and 
pleasure. 

S. S. S., Jr. 

April 27, 1909. 



CONTENTS 



NARRATIVE POEMS 



OLD BALLADS 

PAGE 

Sir Patrick Spens 3 

Johnie Armstrong ' . 4 

The Battle of Otterburn 7 

Robin Hood's Death 11 

The Twa Corbies 14 

Young Waters 15 

Lord Randal .17 

The Bailiff's Daughter of Islington .... 18 

LATE BALLADS 



Lord Ullin's Daughter . 

Lady Clare 

Lucy Gray 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 
La Belle Dame sans Merci . 
Earl March Look'd on His 
Dying Child 

rosabelle 

The Pride of Youth 



Love 

Lochinvar 

The Sands of Dee . 
How They Brought the Good 
News from Ghent to Aix 
Laodamia ..... 
The Outlaw .... 

My Last Duchess 



Campbell 

Tennyson 

Wordsvwrth 

Longfellow 

Keats 


20 

22 

. 25 

. 27 
. 30 


Campbell 

Scott 

Scott 


. 32 
. 32 
. 33 


VE POEMS 




Coleridge 
Scott 
Kingsley . 


. 36 
. 39 
. 41 


Browning 
Wordsworth 
Scott 
Browning 


. 42 
. 44 
. 49 
. 51 



Vll 



Vlll 



CONTENTS 



STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 



Incident of the French 






Camp 

HoHENLINDEN 

The Burial of Sir 


John 


Browning 
Campbell 


. 54 
. 55 


Moore at Corunna 




Wolfe 


56 


The Charge of the 


Light 






Brigade . 
Battle of the Baltic 
After Blenheim 
Herve Riel 
Barbara Frietchie 




Tennyson 

Campbell 

Southey 

Brovming 

Whittier 


. 58 
59 
. 62 
. 64 
. 69 


The Revenge 

The Battle of Naseby 

Pheidippides 




Tennyson 
Macaulay 
Browning 


. 72 
. 78 
. 80 


LONGER 


NARRATIVE POEMS 




The Eve of St. Agnes 




Keats 


. 87 


The Rime of the A 


.NCIENT 






Mariner 

SOHRAB AND RlJSTUM 




Coleridge 
Arnold 


. 100 
. 122 


The Rape of the Lock . 


Pope 


. 147 



LYRIC POEMS 



POEMS OF JOY IN LIFE 

Hunting Song .... Scott 
A Wet Sheet and a Flowing 

Sea Cunningham 

Bicycling Song ... Beeching 

Under the Greenwood Tree Shakspere 

Counsel to Girls . . . Herrick 

It Was a Lover and His Lass Shakspere 
Up at a Villa — Down in the 

City Browning 



173 

174 
175 
176 
176 
177 

178 



POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 



Who is Sylvia? . 
The Indian Serenade 



Shakspere 
Shelley 



182 

182 



CONTENTS 

She Walks in Beauty, Like 

the Night .... Byron 

To Celia Jonson 

my Luve's Like a Red, Red 

Rose Burns 

A Serenade ... . Scott 

Hark, Hark! the Lark . . Shakspere 
To Lucasta, on Going to the 

Wars Lovelace 

Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie 

Doon Burns 

Jean Burns 

When We Two Parted . . Byron 
She Was a Phantom of De- 
light Wordsworth 

One Word Is Too Often Pro- 
faned Shelley 

The Young May Moon . . Moore 
There Be None of Beauty's 

Daughters .... Byron 

The Rover Scott 

Love's Philosophy . . . Shelley 

1 Travell'd Among Unknown 

Men Wordsworth 

Echo Moore 

John Anderson .... Burns 

All for Love .... Byron 
I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle 

Maiden .... Shelley 



IX 
PAGE 

183 
184 

185 
185 
186 

186 

187 
187 
188 

189 

190 
191 

192 
192 
193 

194 
194 
195 
195 

196 



POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 



Requiescat Arnold 

She Dwelt Among the Un- 
trodden Ways . . . Wordsworth 
The Education of Nature . Wordsworth 
A Slumber Did My Spirit 

Seal Wordsioorth 

On Southey's Death . . Landor 

Highland Mary . . . Burns 

The Death Bed . . . Hood 

Elegy Byron 



197 

197 
198 

199 

200 
200 
201 
202 



X CONTENTS 




In Memoriam .... 


Lamb, M. 


PAGE 

. 202 


Elegy Written in a Country 






Churchyard 


Gray 


. 203 


Hester 


Lamb, C. 


. 208 


Elegy on Thyrza 


Byron 


. 209 


Evelyn Hope . 


Browning 


. 211 


Agnes ...... 


Lyte 


. 213 


Glen-Almain, the Narrow 






Glen 


Wordsworth 


. 214 


Captain ! My Captain ! 


Whitman 


. 215 


Coronach 


Scott 


. 216 


The Bridge of Sighs 


Hood 


. 217 


The Two April Mornings 


Wordsworth 


. 221 


Ode Written in 1746 


Collins 


. 223 



POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 



A Boy's Song . 

Ode to the Northeast Wind 

Clear and Cool 

To the Evening Star 

Song to the Evening Star 

The Daffodils 

To the Daisy 

The Chambered Nautilus 

To a Mouse 

To a Skylark 

To the Skylark 

To the Cuckoo 

The Eagle 

To a Waterfoavl 

To the Moon 

To the Night 

Nature and the Poet 

The Invitation 

The Recollection 

The Beech Tree's Petition 

To the Highland Girl of In- 

versneyde . 
The Reaper . . . . 

My Heart Leaps up When I 

Behold . 



Hogg 

Kings ley 

Kingsley 

Campbell 

Campbell 

Wordsworth 

Wordsworth 

Holmes 

Burns 

Shelley 

Wordsworth 

Wordsworth 

Tennyson 

Bryant 

Shelley 

Shelley 

Wordsworth 

Shelley 

Shelley 

Campbell 

Wordsworth 
Wordsworth 

Wordsworth 



255 



CONTENTS 



XI 



POEMS OF LOYALTY AND PATRIOTISM 



Concord Hymn 
Ye Mariners of England 
Pro Patria Mori 
Bannockburn .... 
Home-Thoughts, from Abroad 
Home-Thoughts, from the Sea 
The Lost Leader 
Cavalier Tunes 

I. Marching Along 

II. Give a Rouse 

III. Boot and Saddle 





PAGE 


Emerson 


. 256 


Campbell 
Moore 


. 257 
. 258' 


Burns 


. 259 


Browning 
Browning 
Browning 
Browning 


. 260 
. 260 
. 261 

. 262 



POEMS ON THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 



Character of a Happy Life Wotton 

The River of Life . . Campbell 

A Lesson Wordsworth 

Stanzas Bronte 

Written in Early Spring . Wordsworth 

A Man's a Man for A' That Burns 

To Marguerite . . . Arnold 

Where Lies the Land? . . Clough 
Say Not the Struggle Nought 

Availeth .... Clough 

On His 75th Birthday . . Landor 

Thanatopsis .... Bryant 

L^p-Hill Rossetti, C. G 

Prospice Browning 

Requiem Stevenson 



265 
266 
267 
268 
268 
269 
271 
271 

272 
273 
273 

276 
276 

277 



POEMS IN SONNET FORM 

Wordsworth 



By the Sea . 

On First Looking into Chap- 
man's Homer 

The World is Too Much with 
Us 

If Thou Must Love Me . 

How Do I Love Thee ? . 

To One Who Has Been Long 
in City Pent 



Keats 

Wordsworth 
Browning, E. B. 

Browning , E. B. 

Keats 



278 

278 

279 
279 

280 

281 



Xll 



CONTENTS 



A Consolation .... Shakspere 

To His Love .... Shakspere 

On His Blindness . . . Milton 
On the Late Massacre in 

Piedmont .... Milton 
England and Switzerland, 

1802 Wordsworth 

Bright Star! Would I Were 

Steadfast as Thou Art . Keats 

The Terror of Death . . Keats 

Sleep Sidney 

To Sleep Wordsworth 

Sibylla Palmifera . . . Rossetti 

The Inner Vision . . . Wordsworth 

The Human Seasons . . Keats 

Ozymandias of Egypt . . Shelley 

On the Castle of Chillon Byron 
Upon Westminster Bridge, 

September 3, 1802 . . Wordsworth 
On the Extinction of the 

Venetian Republic . Wordsworth 

Within King's College Chapel, 

Cambridge .... Wordsworth 

Desideria ..... Wordsworth 

London, 1802 .... Wordsworth 

The Same Wordsworth 

When I H^ve Borne in Mem- 
ory What Has Tamed . Wordsworth 



POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 



Constancy 


Suckling 


The Courtin' .... 


Lowell 


The Last Leaf .... 


Holmes 


A Letter of Advice 


Praed 


Encouragements to a Lover 


Suckling . 


Companions .... 


Calverley . 


My Mistress's Boots 


Locker 


The Cane-Bottomed Chair 


Thackeray 


Contentment .... 


Holmes 


Prose and Rhyme 


Dobson 


With Strawberries . 


Henley 


Jenny Kissed Me 


Hunt 



CONTENTS 



xm 



POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 



The Old Familiar Faces 

Break, Break, Break 

The Light of Other Days 

Past and Present 

The Flight of Love 

The Journey Onwards 

Youth and Age 

Youth and Age 

The Reverie of Poor Susan 

Simon Lee, the Old Hunts- 
man 

Stanzas Written in Dejec- 
tion near Naples 

A Dream of the Unknown 

Happy Insensibility 

Datur Hora Quieti 

The Soldier's Dream 

A Dirge . . > . 

Threnos 

Music, When Soft Voices Die 





PAGE 


Lamb, C. . 


. 312 


Tennyson . 


. 313 


Moore 


. 313 


Hood 


. 314 


Shelley 


. 315 


Moore 


. 316 


Byron 


. 317 


Coleridge 


. 319 


Wordsworth 


. 320 


Wordsworth 


. 321 


Shelley 


. 324 


Shelley 


. 325 


Keats 


. 326 


Scott 


. 327 


Campbell 


. 328 


Shelley 


. 329 


Shelley 


. 329 


Shelley 


. 330 



POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 



The Realm of Fancy 

Kubla Khan 

The Poet's Dream 

The Mermaid Tavern 

To a Lady, with a Guitar 

L' Allegro .... 

Il Penseroso 



Keats 


. 331 


Coleridge . 

Shelley 

Keats 


. 334 
. 335 
. 336 


Shelley 
Milton 


. 337 
. 339 


Milton 


. 344 



POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 



Ode to Autumn 
Ode to Winter 
Ode to the West Wind 
Ode to a Nightingale 
Ode on a Grecian Urn 
Ode to Duty 
Ode on Intimations of 
mortality 



Im- 



Keats 


. 349 


Campbell 


. 350 


Shelley 


. 352 


Keats 


. 354 


Keats 


. 357 


Wordsworth 


. 358 


Wordsworth 


. 360 



xiv CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Notes 367 

Suggested Studies 431 

General Survey 453 

Index of Authors 493 

Index of Titles 501 

Index of First Lines 509 



CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF AUTHORS 



Sidney, 1554-1586 
Shakspere, 1564-1616 
Wottost, 1568-1639 
Jonson, 1573-1637 
Herrick, 1591-1674 
Milton, 1608-1674 
Suckling, 1609-1641 
Lovelace, 1618-1658 
Pope, 1688-1744 
Gray, 1715-1771 
Collins, 1721-1759 
Burns, 1759-1796 
Lamb (M.), 1764-1847 
Hogg, 1770-1835 
Wordsworth, 1770-1850 
Scott, 1771-1832 
Qoleridge, 1772-1834 
Southey, 1774-1843 
Lamb (C), 1775-1834 
Landor, 1775-1864 
Campbell, 1779-1844 
Moore, 1779-1852 
Cunningham, 1784-1842 
Hunt, 1784-1859 
Byron, 1788-1824 
Wolfe, 1791-1823 
Shelley, 1792-1822 
Lyte, 1793-1847 



Bryant, 1794-1878 
Keats, 1795-1821 
Hood, 1799-1845 
Macaulay, 1800-1859 
Praed, 1802-1839 
Emerson, 1803-1882 
Longfellow, 1807-1882 
Whittier, 1807-1892 
Browning (E. B.), 1809-1861 
Tennyson, 1809-1892 
H6lmes, 1809-1894 
Thackeray, 1811-1863 
Browning (R.), 1812-1889 
Bronte (E.), 1818-1848 
Clough, 1819-1861 
Kingsley (C), 1819-1875 
Lowell, 1819-1891 
Whitman, 1819-1892 
Locker, 1821-1895 
Arnold, 1822-1888 
Rossetti (D. G.), 1828-1882 
Rossetti (C. G.), 1830-1894 
Calverley, 1831-1884 
Dobson, 1840- 
Stevenson, 1845-1894 
Henley, 1849-1903 
Beeching, 1859- 



NARRATIVE POEMS 



OLD BALLADS 



SIR PA TRICK SPENS 

The king sits in Dumferling toune, 

Drinking the blude-reid wine: 
' O whar will I get guid sailor, 

To sail this schip of mine?' 

Up and spak an eldern knictrt 
Sat at the kings richt kne: 

* Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor 

That sails upon the se.' 

The king has written a braid letter, 

And signd it wi his hand, 
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence, 

Was walking on the sand. 

The first line that Sir Patrick red, 

A loud lauch lauched he; 
The next line that Sir Patrick red, 

The teir blinded his ee. 

1 O wha is this has don this deid, 

This ill deid don to me, 
To send me out this time o' the yeir, 

To sail upon the se? 

* Mak hast, mak haste, my mirry men all, 

Our guid schip sails the morne : ' 
' O say na sae, my master deir, 
For I feir a deadlie storme. 
3 



OLD BALLADS 

' Late late yestreen I saw the new moone, 
Wi the auld moone in hir arme, 

And I feir, I feir, my deir master, 
That we will cum to harme.' 

O our Scots nobles wer richt laith 
To weet their cork-heild schoone; 

Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd, 
Thair hats they swam aboone. 

O lang, lang may their ladies sit, 
Wi thair fans into their hand, 

Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence 
Cum sailing to the land. 

O lang, lang may the ladies stand, 
Wi thair gold kerns in their hair, 

Waiting for thair ain deir lords, 
For they'll se thame na mair. 

Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour, 

It's fiftie fadom deip, 
And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence, 

Wi the Scots lords at his feit. 



JOHN IE ARMSTRONG 

There dwelt a man in faire Westmereland, 
Jonne Armestrong men did him call, 

He had nither lands nor rents coming in, 
Yet he kept eight score men in his hall. 

He had horse and harness for them all, 
Goodly steeds were all milke-white; 

O the golden bands an about their necks, 
And their weapons, they were all alike. 



OLD BALLADS 

Newes then was brought unto the king 

That there was sicke a won as hee, 
That lived lyke a bold out-law, 

And robbed all the north country. 

The king he writt an a letter then, 
A letter which was large and long; 

He signed it with his owne hand, 

And he promised to doe him no wrong. 

When this letter came Jonne' untill, 

His heart it was as blythe as birds on the tree: 
' Never was I sent for before any king, 

My father, my grandfather, nor none but mee. 

' And if wee goe the king before, 

I would we went most orderly; 
Every man of you shall have his scarlet cloak, 

Laced with silver laces three. 

* Every won of yon shall have his velvett coat, 

Laced with sillver lace so white; 
O the golden bands an about your necks, 

Black hatts, white feathers, all alyke.' 

By the morrow morninge at ten of the clock, 
Towards Edenburough gon was hee, 

And with him all his eight score men; 

Good lord, it was a goodly sight for to see ! 

When Jonne came befower the king, 

He fell downe on his knee; 
' O pardon, my soveraine leige,' he said, 

' O pardon my eight score men and mee ! ' 

' Thou shalt have no pardon, thou traytor strong, 
For thy eight score men nor thee; 



OLD BALLADS 

For to-morrow morning by ten of the clock, 

Both thou and them shall hang on the gallow-tree.' 

But Jonne looke'd over his left shoulder, 

Good Lord, what a grevious look looked hee ! 

Saying, ' Asking grace of a graceles face — 
Why there is none for you nor me.' 

But Jonne had a bright sword by his side, 
And it was made of the mettle so free, 

That had not the king stept his foot aside, 

He had smitten his head from his faire bodde. 

Saying, ' Fight on, my merry men all, 

And see that none of you be taine; 
For rather then men shall say we were hange'd, 

Let them report how we were slaine.' 

Then, God wott, faire Eddenburrough rose, 

And so besett poore Jonne rounde, 
That fowerscore and tenn of Jonnes best men 

Lay gasping all upon the ground. 

Then like a mad man Jonne laide about, 
And like a mad man then fought hee, 

Untill a falce Scot came Jonne behinde, 
And runn him through the faire boddee. 

Saying, ' Fight on, my merry men all, 
I am a little hurt, but I am not slain; 

I will lay me down for to bleed a while, 
Then I'le rise and fight with you again.' 

Newes then was brought to young Jonne Armestrong, 

As he stood by his nurses knee, 
Who vowed if ere he live'd for to be a man, 

O the treacherous Scots revengd hee'd be. 



OLD BALLADS 
THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 

It fell about the Lammas tide, 
When the muir-men win their hay, 

The doughty Douglas bound him to ride 
Into England, to drive a prey. 

He chose the Gordons and the Graemes, 
With them the Lindesays, light and gay; 

But the Jardines wald not with him ride, 
And they rue it to this day. 

And he has burnd the dales of Tyne, 
And part of Bambrough shire, 

And three good towers on Reidswire fells, 
He left them all on fire. 

And he marchd up to Newcastle, 

And rode it round about: 
' O wha's the lord of this castle? 

Or wha's the lady o't?' 

But up spake proud Lord Percy then, 

And O but he spake hie! 
I am the lord of this castle, 

My wife's the lady gay. 

' If thou'rt the lord of this castle, 

Sae weel it pleases me, 
For, ere I cross the Border fells, 

The tane of us shall die.' 

He took a lang spear in his hand, 

Shod with the metal free, 
And for to meet the Douglas there 

He rode right furiousiie. 



OLD BALLADS 

But O how pale his lady lookd, 

Frae aff the castle-wa, 
When down before the Scottish spear 

She saw proud Percy fa. 

' Had we twa been upon the green, 

And never an eye to see, 
I wad hae had you, flesh and fell; 

But your sword sail gae wi me.' 

' But gae ye up to Otterbourne, 

And, wait there dayis three, 
And, if I come not ere three dayis end, 

A fause knight ca ye me.' 

* The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn ; 

'Tis pleasant there to be; 
But there is nought at Otterbourne 

To feed my men and me. 

' The deer rins wild on hill and dale, 
The birds fly wild from tree to tree; 

But there is neither bread nor kale 
To fend my men and me. 

' Yet I will stay at Otterbourne, 

Where you shall welcome be; 
And, if ye come not at three dayis end, 

A fause lord I'll ca thee.' 

* Thither will I come,' proud Percy said, 
' By the might of Our Ladye; ' 

1 There will I bide thee,' said the Douglas, 
' My troth I plight to thee.' 

They lighted high on Otterbourne, 
Upon the bent sae brown; 



OLD BALLADS 

They lighted high on Otterbourne, 
And threw their pallions down. 

And he that had a bonnie boy, 

Sent out his horse to grass; 
And he that had not a bonnie boy, 

His ain servant he was. 

But up then spake a little page, 

Before the peep of dawn: 
' O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, 

For Percy's hard at hand.' 

' Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud ! 

Sae loud I hear ye lie: 
For Percy had not men yestreen 

To dight my men and me. 

' But I have dreamd a dreary dream, 

Beyond the Isle of Sky; 
I saw a dead man win a fight, 

And I think that man was I.' 

He belted on his guid braid sword, 

And to the field he ran, 
But he forgot the helmet good, 

That should have kept his brain. 

When Percy wi the Douglas met, 

I wat he was fu fain; 
They swakked their swords, till sair they swat, 

And the blood ran down like rain. 

But Percy with his good broad sword, 

That could so sharply wound, 
Has wounded Douglas on the brow, 

Till he fell to the ground. 



10 OLD BALLADS 

Then he calld on his little foot-page, 

And said, Run speedilie, 
And fetch my ain dear sister's son, 

Sir Hugh Montgomery. 

' My nephew good,' the Douglas said, 
* What recks the death of ane ! 

Last night I dreamd a dreary dream, 
And I ken the day's thy ain. 

'My wound is deep; I fain would sleep; 

Take thou the vanguard of the three, 
And hide me by the braken-bush, 

That grows on yonder lilye lee. 

' O bury me by the braken-bush, 
Beneath the blooming brier; 

Let never living mortal ken 

That ere a kindly Scot lies here.' 

He lifted up that noble lord, 
Wi the saut tear in his ee; 

He hid him in the braken-bush, 
That his merrie men might not see. 

The moon was clear, the day drew near, 
The spears in flinders flew, 

But mony a gallant Englishman 
Ere day the Scotsmen slew. 

The Gordons good, in English blood 
They steepd their hose and shoon; 

The Lindsays flew like fire about, 
Till all the fray was done. 

The Percy and Montgomery met, 
That either of other were fain; 



OLD BALLADS 11 

They swapped swords, and they twa swat, 
And aye the blood ran down between. 

' Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy,' he said, 

' Or else I vow I'll lay thee low ! ' 
' To whom must I yield,' quoth Earl Percy, 

' Now that I see it must be so ? ' 

' Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun, 

Nor yet shalt thou yield to me; 
But yield thee to the braken-bush, 

That grows upon yon lilye lee.' 

' I will not yield to a braken-bush, 

Nor yet will I yield to a brier; 
But I would yield to Earl Douglas, 

Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here.' 

As soon as he knew it was Montgomery, 
He struck his sword's point in the gronde; 

The Montgomery was a courteous knight, 
And quickly took him by the honde. 

This deed was done at the Otterbourne, 

About the breaking of the day; 
Earl Douglas was buried at the braken-bush, 

And the Percy led captive away. 



ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH 

When Robin Hood and Little John 
Down a down a down a down 

Went oer yon bank of broom, 

Said Robin Hood bold to Little John, 

We have shot for many a pound. 
Hey, etc. 



12 OLD BALLADS 

But I am not able to shoot one shot more, 

My broad arrows will not flee; 
But I have a cousin lives down below, 

Please God, she will bleed me. 

Now Robin he is to fair Kirkly gone, 

As fast as he can win; 
But before he came there, as we do hear, 

He was taken very ill. 

And when he came to fair Kirkly-hall, 

He knockd all at the ring, 
But none was so ready as his cousin herself 

For to let bold Robin in. 

' Will you please to sit down, cousin Robin,' she said, 
'And drink some beer with me?' 

' No, I will neither eat nor drink, 
Till I am blooded by thee.' 

' Well, I have a room, cousin Robin,' she said, 

' W T hich you did never see, 
And if 3^011 please to walk therein, 

You blooded by me shall be.' 

She took him by the lily-white hand, 

And led him to a private room, 
And there she blooded bold Robin Hood, 

While one drop of blood would run down. 

She blooded him in a vein of the arm, 

And locked him up in the room; 
There did he bleed all the live-long day, 

Until the next day at noon. 

He then bethought him of a casement there, 
Thinking for to get down; 



OLD BALLADS IS 

But was so weak he could not leap, 
He could not get him down. 

He then bethought him of his bugle-horn, 

Which hung low down to his knee; 
He set his horn unto his mouth, 

And blew out weak blasts three. 

Then Little John, when hearing him, 
As he sat under the tree, 

* I fear my master is now near dead, 

He blows so wearily.' 

Then Little John to fair Kirkly is gone, 

As fast as he can dree; 
But when he came to Kirkly-hall, 

He broke locks two or three: 

Until he came bold Robin to see, 
Then he fell on his knee; 

* A boon, a boon,' cries Little John, 

' Master, I beg of thee.' 

' What is that boon,' said Robin Hood, 
' Little John, thou begs of me ? ' 

* It is to burn fair Kirkly-hall, 

And all their nunnery.' 

' Now nay, now nay,' quoth Robin Hood, 

' That boon I'll not grant thee ; 
I never hurt woman in all my life, 

Nor men in woman's company. 

' I never hurt fair maid in all my time, 

Nor at mine end shall it be; 
But give me my bent bow in my hand, 

And a broad arrow I'll let flee; 



14 OLD BALLADS 

And where this arrow is taken up, 
There shall my grave digged be. 

' Lay me a green sod under my head, 

And another at my feet; 
And lay my bent bow by my side, 

Which was my music sweet; 
And make my grave of gravel and green, 

Which is most right and meet. 

' Let me have length and breadth enough, 
With a green sod under my head; 

That they may say, when I am dead, 
Here lies bold Robin Hood.' 

These words they readily granted him, 
Which did bold Robin please: 

And there they buried bold Robin Hood, 
Within the fair Kirklys. 



THE TWA CORBIES 

As I was walking all alane, 

I heard twa corbies making a mane; 

The tane unto the t'other say, 

'Where sail we gang and dine to-day?' 

' In behint yon auld fail dyke, 
I wot there lies a new slain knight; 
And naebody kens that he lies there, 
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. 

* His hound is to the hunting gane, 
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, 
His lady's ta'en another mate, 
So we may mak our dinner sweet. 



OLD BALLADS 15 

' Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, 
And I'll pike out his bonny blue een; 
Wi ae lock o his gowden hair 
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare. 

' Mony a one for him makes mane, 
But nane sail ken where he is gane; 
Oer his white banes, when they are bare, 
The wind sail blaw for evermair.' 



YOUNG WATERS 

About Yule, when the wind blew cule, 
And the round tables began, 

A there is cum to our king's court 
Mony a well-favord man. 

The queen luikt owre the castle-wa, 
Beheld baith dale and down, 

And there she saw young Waters 
Come riding to the town. 

His footmen they did rin before, 

His horsemen rade behind; 
And mantel of the burning gowd 

Did keip him frae the wind. 

Gowden-graithd his horse before, 

And siller-shod behind; 
The horse young Waters rade upon 

Was fleeter than the wind. 

Out then spack a wylie lord, 

Unto the queen said he, 
* O tell me wha's the fairest face 

Rides in the company?' 



16 OLD BALLADS 

' I've sene lord, and I've sene laird, 
And knights of high degree, 

Bot a fairer face than young Waters 
Mine eyne did never see.' 

Out then spack the jealous king, 
And an angry man was he: 

* O if he had been twice as fair, 

You micht have excepted me.' 

* You're neither laird nor lord,' she says, 

' Bot the king that wears the crown ; 
There is not a knight in fair Scotland 
But to thee maun bow down.' 

For a' that she could do or say, 
Appeasd he wad nae bee, 

Bot for the words which she had said, 
Young Waters he maun die. 

They hae taen young Waters, 
And put fetters to his feet; 

They hae taen young Waters, 

And thrown him in dungeon deep. 

* Aft have I ridden thro Stirling town 

In the wind both and the weit; 
Bot I neir rade thro Stirling town 
Wi' fetters at my feet. 

' Aft have I ridden thro Stirling town 

In the wind both and the rain; 
Bot I neir rade thro Stirling town 
Neir to return again.' 

They hae taen to the heiding-hill 
His young son in his craddle, 



OLD BALLADS 17 

And they hae taen to the heiding-hill 
His horse both and his saddle. 

They hae taen to the heiding-hill 

His lady fair to see, 
And for the words the queen had spoke 

Young Waters he did die. 



LORD RANDAL 

'O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son? 

O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?' 

' I hae been to the wild wood ; mother, make my bed soon ; 

For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down.' 

'Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? 
Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?' 
' I din'd wi my true-love ; mother, make my bed soon ; 
For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down.' 

'What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? 
What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man? ' 
' I gat eels boiled in broo; mother, make my bed soon; 
For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down.' 

' What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my 
son? 

What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young- 
man ? ' 

' O they swelld and they died ; mother, make my bed soon ; 

For I'm weary wi hunting, and fain wald lie down.' 

'O I fear ye are poisond, Lord Randal, my son! 
O I fear ye are poisond, my handsome young man ! ' 
'O yes! I am poisond; mother, make my bed soon; 
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down.' 



18 OLD BALLADS 

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON 

There was a youth, and a well belovd youth, 

And he was a esquire's son, 
He loved the bayliff's daughter dear, 

That lived in Islington. 

She was coy, and she would not believe 

That he did love her so, 
No, nor at any time she would 

Any countenance to him show. 

But when his friends did understand 

His fond and foolish mind, 
They sent him up to fair London, 

An apprentice for to bind. 

And when he had been seven long years, 

And his love he had not seen, 
" Many a tear have I shed for her sake 

When she little thought of me." 

All the maids of Islington 
Went forth to sport and play; 

All but the bayliff's daughter dear; 
She secretly stole away. 

She put off her gown of gray, 
And put on her puggish attire; 

She's up to fair London gone, 
Her true-love to require. 

As she went along the road, 
The weather being hot and dry, 

There was she aware of her true-love, 
At length came riding by. 



OLD BALLADS 19 

She stept to him, as red as any rose, 
And took him by the bridle-ring: 

" I pray you, kind sir, give me one penny 
To ease my weary limb." 

" I prithee, sweetheart, canst thou tell me 

Where that thou wast born ? " 
" At Islington, kind sir," said she, 

" Where I have had many a scorn." 

" I prithee, sweetheart, canst thou tell me 

Whether thou dost know 
The bayliff's daughter of Islington ? " 

" She is dead, sir, long ago." 

" Then will I sell my goodly steed, 

My saddle and my bow; 
I will into some far countrey, 

Where no man doth me know." 

" O stay, O stay, thou goodly youth ! 

She is alive, she is not dead; 
Here she standeth by thy side, 

And is ready to be thy bride." 

"O farewel grief, and welcome joy, 

Ten thousand times and more ! 
For now I have seen mine own true love, 

That I thought I should have seen no more." 



LATE BALLADS 

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER 

A chieftain to the Highlands bound 
Cries ' Boatman, do not tarry ! 
And I'll give thee a silver pound 
To row us o'er the ferry ! ' 

' Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
This dark and stormy water?' 
' O I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. 

' And fast before her father's men 
Three days we've fled together, 
For should he find us in the glen, 
My blood would stain the heather. 

' His horsemen hard behind us ride — 
Should they our steps discover, 
Then who will cheer my bonny bride, 
When they have slain her lover ? ' 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready: 
It is not for your silver bright, 
But for your winsome lady: — 

' And by my word ! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarry; 
So though the waves are raging white 
I'll row you o'er the ferry.' 

20 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 21 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water-wraith was shrieking; 
And in the scowl of Heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 
And as the night grew drearer, 
Adown the glen rode armed men, 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

' O haste thee, haste ! ' the lady cries, 
' Though tempests round us gather ; 
I'll meet the raging of the skies, 
But not an angry father.' 

The boat has left a stormy land, 
A stormy sea before her,— 
When, oh ! too strong for human hand 
The tempest gather'd o'er her. 

And still they row'd amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing: 
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, — 
His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade 
His child he did discover: — 
One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 
And one was round her lover. 

' Come back ! come back ! ' he cried in grief, 
* Across this stormy water : 
And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 
My daughter ! — Oh, my daughter ! ' 



22 LATE BALLADS 

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, 
Return or aid preventing: 
The waters wild went o'er his child, 
And he was left lamenting. 

T. Campbell 



LADY CLARE 

It was the time when lilies blow 
And clouds are highest up in air, 
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn: 
Lovers long-betroth'd were they; 
They two will wed the morrow morn; 
God's blessing on the day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair; 
He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 
Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? " 
" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare, 
" To-morrow he weds with me." 

" O, God be thank'd ! " said Alice the nurse, 
"That all comes round so just and fair; 
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?" 
Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " 
" As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 
" I speak the truth; you are my child, 



ALFRED TENNYSON 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast; 
I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I buried her like my own sweet child, 
And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done, 
O mother," she said, " if this be true, 
To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret for your life, 
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's, 
When you are man and wife." 

"If I'm a beggar born," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 
Pull off, pull off, the broach of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 
" But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said, " Not so ; but I will know 
If there be any faith in man." 

" Nay now, what faith? " said Alice the nurse, 
" The man will cleave unto his right." 
" And he shall have it," the lady replied, 
" Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 
Alas, my child, I sinn'd for thee." 
" O mother, mother, mother," she said, 
" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear, 
My mother dear, if this be so, 



24 LATE BALLADS 

And lay your hand upon my head, 
And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown, 
She was no longer Lady Clare; 
She went by dale, and she went by down, 
With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought 
Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand, 
And follow'd her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower: 
" O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 
Why come you drest like a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth?" 

" If I come drest like a village maid, 
I am but as my fortunes are; 
I am a beggar born," she said, 
" And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" For I am yours in word and in deed. 
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Your riddle is hard to read." 

O and proudly stood she upl 
Her heart within her did not fail; 
She look'd into Lord Ronald's eyes, 
And told him all her nurse's tale. 

He laugh'd a laugh of merry scorn; 

He turn'd, and kiss'd her where she stood: 

"If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, " the next in blood — 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 25 

"If you are not the heiress born 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir, 
We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare." 

A. Tennyson. 

LUCY GRAY 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 
And when I cross'd the wild, 
I chanced to see at break of day 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; 
She dwelt on a wide moor, 
The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door ! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green; 
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 

' To-night will be a stormy night — 
You to the town must go; 
And take a lantern, Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow.' 

'That, Father! will I gladly do: 

'Tis scarcely afternoon — 

The minster-clock has just struck two, 

And yonder is the moon ! ' 

At this the father raised his hook, 
And snapp'd a faggot-band; 
He plied his work; — and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 



26 LATE BALLADS 

Not blither is the mountain roe: 
With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time: 
She wander'd up and down; 
And many a hill did Lucy climb: 
But never reach'd the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide; 
But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At day-break on a hill they stood 
That overlook'd the moor; 
And thence they saw the bridge of wood 
A furlong from their door. 

They wept — and, turning homeward, cried 
' In heaven we all shall meet ! ' 
— When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy's feet. 

Then downwards from the steep hill's edge 
They track'd the footmarks small; 
And through the broken hawthorn hedge, 
And by the long stone-wall: 

And then an open field they cross'd: 
The marks were still the same; 
They track'd them on, nor ever lost; 
And to the bridge they came: 

They follow'd from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 27 

Into the middle of the plank; 
And further there were none ! 

— Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child ; 
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, 
And never looks behind; 
And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 

W. Wordsworth. 

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS* 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 
And the skipper had taken his little daughter, 

To bear him company. 

Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, 

Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds, 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 

His pipe was in his mouth, 
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old sailor, 

Had sailed to the Spanish Main, 
" I pray thee, put into yonder port, 

For I fear a hurricane. 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. 



28 LATE BALLADS 

"Last night, the moon had a golden ring, 

And to-night no moon we see ! " 
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and colder blew the wind, 

A gale from the Northeast, 
The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote amain 

The vessel in its strength ; 
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed, 

Then leaped her cable's length. 

" Come hither ! come hither ! my little daughter, 

And do not tremble so; 
For I can weather the roughest gale 

That ever wind did blow." 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat 

Against the stinging blast; 
He cut a rope from a broken spar, 

And bound her to the mast. 

" O father ! I hear the church bells ring ; 

Oh, say, what may it be ? " 
" 'Tis a fog bell on a rock-bound coast ! " — 

And he steered for the open sea. 

" O father ! I hear the sound of guns ; 

Oh, say, what may it be ? " 
" Some ship in distress, that cannot live 

In such an angry sea ! " 

" O father ! I see the gleaming light ; 
Oh, say, what may it be? " 



HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 29 

But the father answered never a word, 
A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face turned to the skies, 
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed 

That saved she might be; 
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark and drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and snow, 
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land; 
It was the sound of the trampling surf 

On the rocks and the hard sea sand. 

The breakers were right beneath her bows, 

She drifted a dreary wreck, 
And a whooping billow swept the crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, 

With the masts went by the board; 
Like a vessel of glass, she strove and sank, 

Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 



30 LATE BALLADS 

At daybreak on the black sea beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 
To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes; 
And he saw her hair, like the brown seaweed 

On the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 
In the midnight and the snow ! 

Christ save us all from a death like this, 
On the reef of Norman's Woe ! 

H. W. Longfellow. 



LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 

' O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 

Alone and palely loitering? 
The sedge has wither'd from the lake, 

And no birds sing. 

' O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms ! 

So haggard and so woe-begone? 
The squirrel's granary is full, 

And the harvest's done. 

' I see a lily on thy brow 

With anguish moist and fever-dew, 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 

Fast withereth too.' 

' I met a lady in the meads, 

Full beautiful — a faery's child, 



JOHN KEATS 31 

Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
And her eyes were wild. 

' I made a garland for her head, 

And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; 

She look'd at me as she did love, 
And made sweet moan. 

' I set her on my pacing steed 

And nothing else saw all day long, 
For sidelong would she bend, and sing 

A faery's song. 

' She found me roots of relish sweet, 

And honey wild and manna-dew, 
And sure in language strange she said 

" I love thee true." 

' She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept and sigh'd full sore; 
And there I shut her wild wild eyes 

With kisses four. 

* And there she lulled me asleep, 

And there I dream'd — Ah ! woe betide ! 

The latest dream I ever dream'd 
On the cold hill's side. 

' I saw pale kings and princes too, 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all: 

They cried — " La belle Dame sans Merci 
Hath thee in thrall ! " 

i I saw their starved lips in the gloam 

With horrid warning gaped wide, 
And I awoke and found me here 

On the cold hill's side. 



32 LATE BALLADS 

'And this is why I sojourn here 

Alone and palely loitering, 
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, 

And no birds sing.' 

/. Keats. 

EARL MARCH LOOK'D ON HIS 
DYING CHILD 

Earl March look'd on his dying child, 
And, smit with grief to view her — 

The youth, he cried, whom I exiled 
Shall be restored to woo her. 

She's at the window many an hour 

His coming to discover: 
And he look'd up to Ellen's bower 

And she look'd on her lover — 

But ah ! so pale, he knew her not, 

Though her smile on him was dwelling — 

And am I then forgot — forgot? 
It broke the heart of Ellen. 

In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs, 
Her cheek is cold as ashes; 

Nor love's own kiss shall wake those eyes 
To lift their silken lashes. 

T. Campbell. 

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH 

Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking so early; 
Sweet Robin sits on the bush, 

Singing so rarely. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 

' Tell me, thou bonny bird, 

When shall I marry me?' 
— ' When six braw gentlemen 

Kirkward shall carry ye.' 

* Who makes the bridal bed, 

Birdie, say truly? ' 
— ' The gray-headed sexton 

That delves the grave duly. 

' The glowworm o'er grave and stone 
Shall light thee steady; 

The owl from the steeple sing- 
Welcome, proud lady.' 

Sir W. Scott. 

ROSA BELLE 

O listex, listen, ladies gay! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay 

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 

' Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew ! 

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! 
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

4 The blackening wave is edged with white; 

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; 
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 

Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh. 

'Last night the gifted Seer did view 

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; 

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; 
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?' 



34 LATE BALLADS 

' 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 

But that my laclye-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 

' 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 

But that my sire the wine will chide 
If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.' 

— O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 

'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
And redder than the bright moonbeam. 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 

'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, 

Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

Seem'd all on fire within, around, 
Deep sacristy and altar's pale; 

Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair- 
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high Saint Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold- 
Lie buried within that proud chapelle; 



SIR WALTER SCOTT $5 

Each one the holy vault doth hold — 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle. 

And each Saint Clair was buried there, 
With candle, with book, and with knell; 

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 

Sir W. Scott. 



SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

LOVE 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
All are but ministers of Love, 
And feed his sacred flame. 

Oft in my waking dreams do I 
Live o'er again that happy hour, 
When midway on the mount I lay, 
Beside the ruin'd tower. 

The moonshine stealing o'er the scene 
Had blended with the lights of eve; 
And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
My own dear Genevieve ! 

She lean'd against the armed man, 
The statue of the armed knight; 
She stood and listen'd to my lay, 
Amid the lingering light. 

Few sorrows hath she of her own, 
My hope ! my j oy ! my Genevieve ! 
She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
The songs that make her grieve. 

I play'd a soft and doleful air, 
I sang an old and moving story — 
An old rude song, that suited well 
That ruin wild and hoary. 
36 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 37 

She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace; 
For well she knew, I could not choose 
But gaze upon her face. 

I told her of the Knight that wore 
Upon his shield a burning brand; 
And that for ten long years he woo'd 
The Lady of the Land. 

I told her how he pined: and ah! 
The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
With which I sang another's love 
Interpreted my own. 

She listen'd with a flitting blush, 
With downcast eyes, and modest grace; 
And she forgave me, that I gazed 
Too fondly on her face ! 

But when I told the cruel scorn 
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods, 
Nor rested day nor night; 

That sometimes from the savage den, 
And sometimes from the darksome shade, 
And sometimes starting up at once 
In green and sunny glade, — 

There came and look'd him in the face 
An angel beautiful and bright; 
And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
This miserable Knight ! 



38 SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

And that unknowing what he did, 
He leap'd amid a murderous band, 
And saved from outrage worse than death 
The Lady of the Land; — 

And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees; 
And how she tended him in vain — 
And ever strove to expiate 

The scorn that crazed his brain; — 

And that she nursed him in a cave, 
And how his madness went away, 
When on the yellow forest-leaves 
A dying man he lay ; — 

His dying words — but when I reach'd 
That tenderest strain of all the ditty, 
My faltering voice and pausing harp 
Disturb'd her soul with pity ! 

All impulses cf soul and sense 
Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve; 
The music and the doleful tale, 
The rich and balmy eve; 

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
An undistinguishable throng, 
And gentle wishes long subdued, 
Subdued and cherish'd long! 

She wept with pity and delight, 
She blush'd with love, and virgin shame; 
And like the murmur of a dream, 
I heard her breathe my name. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 39 

Her bosom heaved — she stepp'd aside. 
As conscious of my look she stept — 
Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
She fled to me and wept. 

She half inclosed me with her arms, 
She press' d me with a meek embrace; 
And bending; back her head, look'd up, 
And gazed upon my face. 

'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
And partly 'twas a bashful art 
That I might rather feel, than see, 
The swelling- of her heart. 

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, 
And told her love with virgin pride; 
And so I won my Genevieve, 

My bright and beauteous Bride. 

S. T. Coleridge. 



LOCHINVAR 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, 

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; 

And save his good broad sword he weapons had none. 

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 

There never was Knight like the ) r oung Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone; 

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; 

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 

The bride had consented, the gallant came late; 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. 



40 SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 

'Mong bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all: 

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword 

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 

" Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?" 

" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; 
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far 
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." 

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up: 
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. 
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. 
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar, — 
" Now tread we a measure ! " said young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did grace; 

While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, " 'Twere better by far 

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, 

When they reached the hall door and the charger stood near; 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, 

So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 

" She is won ! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur ! 

They'll have fleet steeds that follow ! " quoth young Lochin- 



CHARLES KINGSLEY 41 

There was mounting 'mong Gra?mes of the Netherby elan; 

Forsters, Fenwieks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; 

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee; 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 

Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? 

Sir W. Scott. 

THE SANDS OF DEE 

" O Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home 
Across the sands of Dee." 
The western wind was wild and dark wi' foam, 
And all alone went she. 

The western tide crept up along the sand, 
And o'er and o'er the sand, 
And round and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see. 
The rolling mist came down and hid the land — 
And never home came she. 

" Oh ! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair — 
A tress o' golden hair, 
A drowned maiden's hair 
Above the nets at sea? 
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair 
Among the stakes on Dee." 

They rowed her in across the rolling foam, 
The cruel crawling foam, 
The cruel hungry foam, 
To her grave beside the sea: 
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home 
Across the sands of Dee! 

C. Klngsley. 



42 SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM 
GHENT TO AIX 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three; 

" Good speed ! " cried the watch as the gate-bolts undrew ; 

" Speed ! " echoed the wall to us galloping through ; 

Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped abreast. 

Not a word to each other; we kept the great pace 
Neck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place; 
I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight, 
Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right, 
Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit, 
Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit. 

'Twas moonset at starting; but while we drew near 

Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; 

At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see; 

At Duffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime, 

So Joris broke silence with, " Yet there is time ! " 

At Aershot, up leaped of a sudden the sun, 
And against him the cattle stood black every one, 
To stare through the mist at us galloping past, 
And I saw my stout galloper Roland at last, 
With resolute shoulders, each butting away 
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray: 

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back 
For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track; 
And one eye's black intelligence, — ever that glance 
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance ! 
And the thick heavy spume-flakes, which aye and anon 
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on. 



ROBERT BROWNING 43 

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned ; and cried Joris, " Stay spur ! 
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her, 
We'll remember at Aix " — for one heard the quick wheeze 
Of her chest, saw the stretched neck and staggering knees, 
And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank, 
As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank. 

So, we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 

'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, 

And " Gallop," gasped Joris, " for Aix is in sight ! " 

" How they'll greet us ! " — and all in a moment his roan 
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone; 
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight 
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, 
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, 
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim. 

Then I cast loose my buffcoat, each holster let fall, 
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, 
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, 
Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; 
Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, 
Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. 

And all I remember is — friends flocking round 
As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground; 
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, 
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, 
Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) 
Was no more than his due who brought good news from 
Ghent. 

B. Browning. 



44 SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

LAO DA MI A 

* With sacrifice before the rising morn 

Vows have I made by fruitless hope inspired; 

And from the infernal Gods, 'mid shades forlorn 

Of night, my slaughtered Lord have I required: 

Celestial pity I again implore; — 

Restore him to my sight — great Jove, restore ! ' 

So speaking, and by fervent love endowed 

With faith, the Suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; 

While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, 

Her countenance brightens — and her eye expands; 

Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows; 

And she expects the issue in repose. 

O terror ! what hath she perceived ? — O j oy ! 
What doth she look on? — whom doth she behold? 
Her Hero slain upon the beach of Troy? 
His vital presence? his corporeal mould? 
It is — if sense deceive her not — 'tis He! 
And a God leads him, winged Mercury ! 

Mild Hermes spake — and touched her with his wand 

That calms all fear: 'Such grace hath crowned thy prayer. 

Laodamia ! that at Jove's command 

Thy Husband walks the paths of upper air: 

He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space; 

Accept the gift, behold him face to face ! ' 

Forth sprang the impassioned Queen her Lord to clasp; 

Again that consummation she essayed: 

But unsubstantial Form eludes her grasp 

As often as that eager grasp was made. 

The Phantom parts — but parts to re-unite, 

And re-assume his place before her sight. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 45 

' Protesilaus, lo ! thy guide is gone ! 
Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice: 
This is our palace, — yonder is thy throne; 
Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. 
Not to appal me have the gods bestowed 
This precious boon; and blest a sad abode.' 

' Great Jove, Laodamia ! doth not leave 
His gifts imperfect:— Spectre though I be, 
I am not sent to scare thee or deceive; 
But in reward of thy fidelity. 
And something also did my worth obtain; 
For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain. 

' Thou knowest, the Delphic oracle foretold 

That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand 

Should die; but me the threat could not withhold: 

A generous cause a victim did demand; 

And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; 

A self-devoted chief — by Hector slain.' 

' Supreme of Heroes — bravest, noblest, best ! 

Thy matchless courage I bewail no more, 

Which then, when tens of thousands were deprest 

By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore; 

Thou found'st — and I forgive thee — here thou art — 

A nobler counsellor than my poor heart. 

1 But thou, though capable of sternest deed, 
Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave; 
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed 
Thou should'st elude the malice of the grave: 
Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair 
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air. 

' No Spectre greets me, — no vain Shadow this : 
Come, blooming Hero, place thee by my side ! 



46 SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss 
To me, this day, a second time thy bride ! ' 
Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parcae threw 
Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue. 

'This visage tells thee that my doom is past: 

Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys 

Of sense were able to return as fast 

And surely as they vanish. Earth destroys 

Those raptures duly — Erebus disdains: 

Calm pleasures there abide — majestic pains. 

' Be taught, O faithful Consort, to control 
Rebellious passion; for the Gods approve 
The depth, and not the tumult, of the soul; 
A fervent, not ungovernable, love. 
Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn 
When I depart, for brief is my sojourn — ' 

'Ah, wherefore? — Did not Hercules by force 
Wrest from the guardian Monster of the tomb 
Alcestis, a reanimated corse, 
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom? 
Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, 
And iEson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers. 

' The Gods to us are merciful — and they 

Yet further may relent: for mightier far 

Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway 

Of magic potent over sun and star, 

Is love, though oft to agony distrest, 

And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast. 

' But if thou goest, I follow — ' ' Peace ! ' he said, — 
She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered; 
The ghastly colour from his lips had fled; 
In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 47 

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, 

Brought from a pensive though a happy place. 

He spake of love, such love as Spirits feel 
In worlds whose course is equable and pure; 
No fears to beat away — no strife to heal — 
The past unsighed for, and the future sure; 
Spake of heroic arts in graver mood 
Revived, with finer harmony pursued; 

Of all that is most beauteous — imaged there 

In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, 

An ampler ether, a diviner air, 

And fields invested with purpureal gleams; 

Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 

Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey. 

Yet there the Soul shall enter which hath earned 

That privilege by virtue. — ' 111,' said he, 

' The end of man's existence I discerned, 

Who from ignoble games and revelry 

Could draw, when we had parted, vain delight, 

While tears were thy best pastime, day and night; 

'And while my youthful peers before my eyes 
(Each hero following his peculiar bent) 
Prepared themselves for glorious enterprise 
By martial sports, — or, seated in the tent, 
Chieftains and kings in council were detained; 
What time the fleet at Aulis lay enchained. 

' The wished-f or wind was given ; — I then revolved 

The oracle, upon the silent sea; 

And, if no worthier led the way, resolved 

That, of a thousand vessels, mine should be 

The foremost prow in pressing to the strand, — 

Mine the first blood that tinged the Trojan sand. 



48 SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

' Yet bitter, oft-times bitter, was the pang 

When of thy loss I thought, beloved Wife! 

On thee too fondly did my memory hang, 

And on the joys we shared in mortal life, — 

The paths which we had trod — these fountains, flowers, 

My new-planned cities, and unfinished towers. 

' But should suspense permit the Foe to cry, 

" Behold they tremble ! — haughty their array, 

Yet of their number no one dares to die? " 

In soul I swept the indignity away: 

Old frailties then recurred: — but lofty thought, 

In act embodied, my deliverance wrought. 

' And Thou, though strong in love, art all too weak 

In reason, in self-government too slow; 

I counsel thee by fortitude to seek 

Our blest re-union in the shades below. 

The invisible world with thee hath sympathised; 

Be thy affections raised and solemnised. 

' Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend — 
Seeking a higher object. Love was given, 
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end; 
For this the passion to excess was driven — 
That self might be annulled: her bondage prove 
The fetters of a dream, opposed to love.' — 

Aloud she shrieked ! for Hermes re-appears ! 

Round the dear Shade she would have clung — 'tis vain: 

The hours are past — too brief had they been years; 

And him no mortal effort can detain: 

Swift, toward the realms that know not earthly day, 

He through the portal takes his silent way, 

And on the palace-floor a lifeless corse She lay. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 49 

Thus, all in vain exhorted and reproved, 
She perished; and, as for a wilful crime, 
By the just Gods whom no weak pity moved, 
Was doomed to wear out her appointed time, 
Apart from happy Ghosts, that gather flowers 
Of blissful quiet 'mid unfading bowers. 

— Yet tears to human suffering are due; 

And mortal hopes defeated and o'erthrown 

Are mourned by man, and not by man alone, 

As fondly he believes. — Upon the side 

Of Hellespont (such faith was entertained) 

A knot of spiry trees for ages grew 

From out the tomb of him for whom she died; 

And ever, when such stature they had gained 

That Ilium's walls were subject to their view, 

The trees' tall summits withered at the sight; 

A constant interchange of growth and blight ! 

W. Wordsworth. 



THE OUTLAW 

O Brigxall banks are wild and fair, 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there 

Would grace a summer-queen. 
And as I rode by Dalton-Hall 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A Maiden on the castle-wall 

Was singing merrily: 
* O Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen.' 



50 SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

' If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, 

To leave both tower and town, 
Thou first must guess what life lead we 

That dwell by dale and down. 
And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed 

As blithe as Queen of May.' 
Yet sung she, ' Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are green; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there 

Than reign our English queen. 

' I read you, by your bugle-horn 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a ranger sworn 

To keep the king's greenwood.' 
' A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 

And 'tis at peep of light; 
His blast is heard at merry morn, 

And mine at dead of night.' 
Yet sung she, ' Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay; 
I would I were with Edmund there 

To reign his Queen of May ! 

' With burnish'd brand and musketoon 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold Dragoon 

That lists the tuck of drum.' 
' I list no more the tuck of drum, 

No more the trumpet hear; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum 

My comrades take the spear. 
And O ! though Brignall banks be fair 

And Greta woods be gay, 



ROBERT BROWNING 51 

Yet mickle must the maiden dare 
Would reign my Queen of May! 

' Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I'll die; 
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead 

Were better mate than I ! 
And when I'm with my comrades met 

Beneath the greenwood bough, — 
What once we were we all forget, 

Nor think what we are now.' 

Chorus 

1 Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there 

Would grace a summer-queen.' 

Sir W. Scott. 



MY LAST DUCHESS 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 
Looking as if she were alive. I call 
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolfs hands 
Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 
Will 't please you sit and look at her? I said 
" Fra Pandolf " by design, for never read 
Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 
The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 
But to myself they turned (since none puts by 
The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, 
How such a glance came there; so, not the first 
Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not 
Her husband's presence only, called that spot 



52 SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

Of joy into the Duchess' cheek; perhaps 

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, " Her mantle laps 

Over my lady's wrist too much," or " Paint 

Must never hope to reproduce the faint 

Half-flush that dies along her throat : " such stuff 

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 

For calling up that spot of joy. She had 

A heart — how shall I say? — too soon made glad, 

Too easily impressed: she liked whate'er 

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 

Sir, 'twas all one! My favor at her breast, 

The dropping of the daylight in the West, 

The bough of cherries some officious fool 

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule 

She rode with round the terrace — all and each 

Would draw from her alike the approving speech, 

Or blush, at least. She thanked men, — good! but thanked 

Somehow — I know not how — as if she ranked 

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name 

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame 

This sort t)f trifling? Even had you skill 

In speech — (which I have not) — to make your will 

Quite clear to such an one, and say, " Just this 

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, 

Or there exceed the mark " — and if she let 

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set 

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, 

— E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose 

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, 

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without 

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; 

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands 

As if alive. Will 't please you rise? We'll meet 

The company below, then. I repeat 

The Count your master's known munificence 

Is ample warrant that no just pretence 



ROBERT BROWNING 53 

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; 
Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed 
At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go 
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, 
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me! 

R. Browning. 



STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon: 

A mile or so away, 
On a little mound, Napoleon 

Stood on our storming-day ; 
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 

Legs wide, arms locked behind, 
As if to balance the prone brow 

Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as perhaps 4 he mused, 'My plans 

That soar, to earth may fall, 
Let once my army-leader Lannes 

Waver at yonder walk' — 
Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 

Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 

And held himself erect 
By just his horse's mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect — 

(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 

Scarce any blood came through,) 

• You looked twice e'er you saw his breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

54 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 55 

' Well,' cried he, ' Emperor, by God's grace 

We've got you Ratisbon ! 
The Marshal's in the market-place, 

And you'll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans 

Where I, to heart's desire, 
Perched him!' The chief's eye flashed; his plans 

Soared up again like fire. 

The chief's eye flashed; but presently 

Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother-eagle's eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes; 
' You're wounded ! ' ' Nay,' his soldier's pride 

Touched to the quick, he said: 
' I'm killed, sire ! ' And his chief beside, 

Smiling the boy fell dead. 

B. Browning. 



HOHENLINDEN 

Ox Linden, when the sun was low, 
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

But Linden saw another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array'd 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh'd 
To join the dreadful revelry. 



56 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

Then shook the hills with thunder riven; 
Then rush'd the steed, to battle driven; 
And louder than the bolts of Heaven 
Far flash'd the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow 
On Linden's hills of stained snow; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye Brave 
Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave, 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 

Few, few shall part, where many meet; 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 

T. Campbell 



THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT 
CORUNNA 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, 
As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot 
O'er the grave where our hero we buried. 



CHARLES WOLFE 57 

We buried him darkly at dead of night, 

The sods with our bayonets turning; 
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, 
With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the morrow. 

We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed 

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, 
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow ! 

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone 
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — 

But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on 
In the grave where a Briton has laid him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for retiring: 

And we heard the distant and random gun 
That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and gory; 

We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone with his glory. 

C. Wolfe. 



58 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 

Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 
All in the valley of Death, 

Rode the six hundred. 
' Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns ! ' he said : 
Into the valley of Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

' Forward, the Light Brigade ! ' 
Was there a man dismayed? 
Not though the soldier knew 

Some one had blundered: 
Theirs not to make reply, 
Theirs not to reason why, 
Theirs but to do and die; — 
Into the valley of 'Death 

Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon in front of them 

Volleyed and thundered; 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
Boldly they rode and well; 
Into the jaws of Death, 
Into the mouth of Hell 

Rode the six hundred. 

Flashed all their sabres bare, 
Flashed as they turned in air, 
Sabring the gunners there, 
Charging an army, while 
All the world wondered: 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 59 

Plunged in the battery smoke, 
Right through the line they broke; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reeled from the sabre stroke 

Shattered and sundered. 
Then they rode back, but not — 

Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 
Cannon behind them 

Volleyed and thundered. 
Stormed at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 
They that had fought so well 
Came through the jaws of Death, 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them, 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 
O the wild charge they made ! 

All the world wondered. 
Honor the charge they made ! 
Honor the Light Brigade! 

Noble six hundred. 

A. Tennyson. 



BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 

Of Nelson and the North 

Sing the glorious day's renown, 

When to battle fierce came forth 

All the might of Denmark's crown, 

And her arms along the deep proudly shone; 



60 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

By each gun the lighted brand 
In a bold determined hand, 
And the Prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 

While the sign of battle flew 

On the lofty British line: 

It was ten of April morn by the chime: 

As they drifted on their path 

There was silence deep as death; 

And the boldest held his breath 

For a time. 

l 

But the might of England flush'd 

To anticipate the scene; 

And her van the fleeter rush'd 

O'er the deadly space between. 

' Hearts of oak ! ' our captains cried, when each gun 

From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

Of the sun. 

Again ! again ! again ! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 

To our cheering sent us back; — 

Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — 

Then ceased — and all is wail, 

As they strike the shatter'd sail; 

Or in conflagration pale 

Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then 

As he hail'd them o'er the wave, 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 6l 

' Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 

And we conquer but to save: — 

So peace instead of death let us bring: 

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet 

With the crews, at England's feet, 

And make submission meet 

To our King.' 

Then Denmark bless'd our chief 

That he gave her wounds repose; 

And the sounds of joy and grief 

From her people wildly rose, 

As death withdrew his shades from the day: 

While the sun look'd smiling bright 

O'er a wide and woeful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 

Died away. 

Now joy, old England, raise! 
For the tidings of thy might, 
By the festal cities' blaze, 
Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; 
And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
Let us think of them that sleep 
Full many a fathom deep 
By the wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 

Once so faithful and so true, 

On the deck of fame that died, 

With the gallant good Riou: 

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave ! 

While the billow mournful rolls 

And the mermaid's song condoles 

Singing glory to the souls 

Of the brave ! 

T. Campbell 



62 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

AFTER BLENHEIM 

It was a summer evening, 
Old Kaspar's work was done, 

And he before his cottage door 
Was sitting in the sun; 

And by him sported on the green 

His little grandchild Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round 

Which he beside the rivulet 
In playing there had found; 

He came to ask what he had found 

That was so large and smooth and round. 

Old Kaspar took it from the boy 

Who stood expectant by; 
And then the old man shook his head, 

And with a natural sigh 
' 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 
' Who fell in the great victory. 

' I find them in the garden, 
For there's many here about; 
And often when I go to plough 

The ploughshare turns them out. 
For many thousand men,' said he, 
' Were slain in that great victory.' 

' Now tell us what 'twas all about,' 

Young Peterkin he cries; 
And little W T ilhelmine looks up 

With wonder-waiting eyes; 
' Now tell us all about the war, 
And what they fought each other for.' 



ROBERT SOUTHEY 63 

' It was the English,' Kaspar cried, 

' Who put the French to rout ; 
But what they fought each other for 

I could not well make out. 
But everybody said,' quoth he, 
' That 'twas a famous victory. 

' My father lived at Blenheim then, 

Yon little stream hard by; 
They burnt his dwelling to the ground, 

And he was forced to fly: 
So with his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head. 



' With fire and sword the country round 

Was wasted far and wide 
And many a childing mother then 

And newborn baby died: 
But things like that, you know, must be 
At every famous victory. 

' They say it was a shocking sight 

After the field was won; 
For many thousand bodies here 

Lay rotting in the sun: 
But things like that, you know, must be 
After a famous victory. 

' Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won 
And our good Prince Eugene ; ' 

' W r hy 'twas a very wicked thing ! ' 
Said little Wilhelmine; 

' Nay . . nay . . my little girl,' quoth he, 

' It was a famous victory. 



64 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

' And everybody praised the Duke 
Who this great fight did win.' 

'But what good came of it at last?' 
Quoth little Peterkin:— 

' Why that I cannot tell,' said he, 

' But 'twas a famous victory.' 

R. Southey. 



HERVE RIEL 

I 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety-two, 
Did the English fight the French, — woe to France ! 

And, the thirty-first of May, helter-skelter through the blue, 

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises a shoal of sharks 
pursue, 
Came crowding ship on ship to St. Malo on the Ranee, 

With the English fleet in view. 



II 

'Twas the squadron that escaped, with the victor in full 
chase; 
First and foremost of the drove, in his great ship, Dam- 
f reville ; 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all; 
And they signalled to the place 
' Help the winners of a race ! 

Give us guidance, give us harbour, take us quick — or, 

quicker still, 
Here's the English can and will ! ' 



ROBERT BROWNING 65 

III 

Then the pilots of the place put out brisk and leapt on 
board ; 
' Why, what hope or chance have ships like these to pass? ' 
laughed they: 
' Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all the passage scarred 

and scored, 
Shall the Formidable here with her twelve and eighty guns 
Think to make the river-mouth by the single narrow way, 
Trust to enter where 'tis ticklish for a craft of twenty tons, 
And with flow at full beside? 
Now, 'tis slackest ebb of tide. 
Reach the mooring? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 
Not a ship will leave the bay ! ' 

IV 

Then was called a council straight. 

Brief and bitter the debate: 

' Here's the English at our heels ; would you have them take 

in tow 
All that's left us of the fleet, linked together stern and bow, 
For a prize to Plymouth Sound? 
Better run the ships aground ! ' 

(Ended Damfreville his speech.) 
' Not a minute more to wait ! 

Let the Captains all and each 

Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the vessels on the beach ! 
France must undergo her fate. 



' Give the word ! ' But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in struck amid all these 
— A Captain? A Lieutenant? A Mate — first, second, third? 



66 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete! 

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by Tourville for the 
fleet, 
A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel the Croisickese. 

VI 

And, 'What mockery or malice have we here?' cries Herve 
Riel: 
' Are you mad, you Malouins? Are you cowards, fools, or 
rogues? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me who took the soundings, 

tell 
On my fingers every bank, every shallow, every swell 

"Twixt the offing here and Greve where the river dis- 
embogues? 
Are you bought by English gold? Is it love the lying's for? 
Morn and eve, night and day, 
Have I piloted your bay, 
Entered free and anchored fast at foot of Solidor. 

Burn the fleet and ruin France? That were worse than 
fifty Hogues ! 
Sirs, they know I speak the truth! Sirs, believe me 
there's a way ! 
Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 
Get this Formidable clear, 
Make the others follow mine, 

And I lead them, most and least, by a passage I know well, 
Right to Solidor past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 
And if one ship misbehave, 

— Keel so much as grate the ground, 
Why, I've nothing but my life, — here's my head ! ' cries 
Herve Riel. 



ROBERT BROWNING 67 

VII 

Not a minute more to wait. 

' Steer us in, then, small and great ! 

Take the helm, lead the line, save the squadron ! ' cried its 
chief. 
Captains, give the sailor place ! 

He is Admiral, in brief. 
Still the north-wind, by God's grace ! 
See the noble fellow's face 
As the big ship, with a bound, 
Clears the entry like a hound, 

Keeps the passage as its inch of way were the wide seas 
profound ! 

See, safe through shoal and rock, 

How they follow in a flock, 
Not a ship that misbehaves, not a keel that grates the 
ground, 

Not a spar that comes to grief! 
The peril, see, is past, 
All are harboured to the last, 

And just as Hcrve Riel hollas 'Anchor!' — sure as fate 
Up the English come — too late! 



VIII 

So, the storm subsides to calm: 

They see the green trees wave 

On the heights o'erlooking Greve. 
Hearts that bled are stanched with balm. 
' Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the English rake the bay, 
Gnash their teeth and glare askance 

As they cannonade away ! 
'Neath rampired Solidor pleasant riding on the Ranee! 



68 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

How hope succeeds despair on each Captain's countenance ! 
Out burst all with one accord, 

* This is Paradise for Hell ! 

Let France,, let France's King 
Thank the man that did the thing ! ' 
What a shout, and all one word, 

' Herve Riel ! ' 
As he stepped in front once more, 

Not a symptom of surprise 

In the frank blue Breton eyes, 
Just the same man as before. 



IX 



Then said Damfreville, ' My friend, 
I must speak out at the end, 

Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips: 
You have saved the King his ships, 

You must name your own reward. 
'Faith, our sun was near eclipse! 
Demand whate'er you will, 
France remains your debtor still. 

Ask to heart's content and have ! or my name's not Damfre- 
ville.' 

X 

Then a beam of fun out broke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 
As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 
' Since I needs must say my say, 

Since on board the duty's done, 

And from Malo Roads to Croisic Point, what is it but a 
run?— 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 69 

Since 'tis ask and have, I may — 

Since the others go ashore — 
Come ! A good whole holiday ! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I call the Belle 
Aurore ! ' 

That he asked and that he got, — nothing more. 

XI 

Name and deed alike are lost: 
Not a pillar nor a post 

In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as it befell; 
Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing smack, 
In memory o£ the man but for whom had gone to wrack 

All that France saved from the fight whence England bore 
the bell. 
Go to Paris: rank on rank 

Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank ! 

You shall look long enough ere you come to Herve Riel. 
So, for better and for worse, 
Herve Riel, accept my verse ! 
In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once more 
Save the squadron, honour France, love thy wife the Belle 
Aurore ! 

R. Browning. 

BARBARA FRIETCHIE * 

Up from the meadows rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick stand 
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland. 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. 



70 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as a garden of the Lord, 

To the eyes of the famished rebel horde, 

On that pleasant morn of the early fall 
When Lee marched over the mountain wall, 

Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind: the sun 
Of noon looked down, and saw not one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men hauled down; 

In her attic-window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
He glanced; the old flag met his sight. 

'Halt!' — the dust-brown ranks stood fast; 
' Fire ! ' — out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and sash; 
It rent the banner with seam and gash. 



JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER 71 

Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf; 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

' Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
But spare your country's flag,' she said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman's deed and word: 

' Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
Dies like a dog! March on! ' he said. 

All day long through Frederick street 
Sounded the tread of marching feet; 

All day long that free flag tost 
Over the heads' of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 

On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, 

And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. 

Honor to her ! and let a tear 

Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall's bier. 



72 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

Over Barbara Frietchie's grave, 
Flag of Freedom and Union wave! 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town ! 

J. G. Whittier. 



THE REVENGE 
A Ballad of the Fleet 

1 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, 

And a pinnace, like a flutter'd bird, came flying from far 

away: 
' Spanish ships of war at sea ! we have sighted fifty-three ! ' 
Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "Fore God I am no 

coward ; 
But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, 
And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow 

quick. 
We are six ships of the line; can we fight with f fty-three? ' 

II 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: 'I know you are no 

coward ; 
You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. 
But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. 
I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord 

Howard, 
To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain.' 



ALFRED TENNYSON 73 

III 

So Lord Howard past away with five ships of war that day, 

Till he melted like a cloud in the silent summer heaven; 

But Sir Richard bore in hand all his sick men from the land 

Very carefully and slow, 

Men of Biddeford in Devon, 

And we laid them on the ballast down below; 

For we brought them all aboard, 

And they blest him in their pain, that they were not left to 

Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for the glory of the Lord. 

IV 

He had only a hundred seamen to work the ship and to fight, 
And he sailed away from Flores till the Spaniaid came in 

sight, 
With his huge sea-castles heaving upon the weather bow. 
' Shall we fight or shall we fly ? 
Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 
For to fight is but to die! 

There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set.' 
And Sir Richard said again: 'We be all good English men. 
Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, 
For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet.' 



Sir Richard spoke and he laugh'd, and we roar'd a hurrah, 

and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, 
With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick 

below ; 
For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were 

seen, 
And the little Revenge ran on thro' the long sea-lane 

between. 



74 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

VI 

Thousands of their soldiers look'd down from their decks 

and laugh'd, 
Thousands of their seamen made mock at the mad little 

craft 
Running on and on, till delay'd 
By their mountain-like San Philip that, of fifteen hundred 

tons, 
And up-shadowing high above us with her yawning tiers of 

guns, 
Took the breath from our sails, and we stay'd. 

VII 

And while now the great San Philip hung above us like a 

cloud 
Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
Long and loud, 
Four galleons drew away 
From the Spanish fleet that day, 

And two upon the larboard and two upon the starboard lay, 
And the battle-thunder broke from them all. 



VIII 



But anon the great San Philip, she bethought herself and 

went 
Having that within her womb that had left her ill content; 
And the rest they came aboard us, and they fought us 

hand to hand, 
For a dozen times they came with their pikes and musque- 

teers, 
And a dozen times we shook 'em off as a dog that shakes 

his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the land. 



ALFRED TENNYSON 75 

IX 

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the 
summer sea, 

But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the 
fifty-three. 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, their high-built gal- 
leons came, 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, with her battle- 
thunder and flame; 

Ship after ship, the whole night long, drew back with her 
dead and her shame. 

For some were sunk and many were shatter'd, and so could 
fight us no more — 

God of battles, was ever a battle like this in the world 
before? 

X 

For he said ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' 

Tho' his vessel was all but a wreck; 

And it chanced that, when half of the short summer night 

was gone, 
With a grisly wound to be drest he had left the deck, 
But a bullet struck him that was dressing it suddenly 

dead, 
And himself he was wounded again in the side and the 

head, 
And he said ' Fight on ! fight on ! ' 



XI 



And the night went down, and the sun smiled out far over 

the summer sea, 
And the Spanish fleet with broken sides lay round us all in 

a ring; 



76 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

But they dared not touch us again, for they feared that 

we still could sting, 
So they watch'd what the end would be. 
And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 
Seeing forty of our poor hundred were slain, 
And half of the rest of us mainVd for life 
In the crash of the cannonades and the desperate strife; 
And the sick men down in the hold were most of them stark 

and cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, and the powder was 

all of it spent; 
And the masts and the rigging were lying over the side; 
But Sir Richard cried in his English pride, 
' AVe have fought such a fight for a day and a night 
As may never be fought again ! 
We have won great glory, my men ! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore, 
We die — does it matter when? 
Sink me the ship, Master Gunner — sink her, split her in 

twain ! 
Fall into the hands of God, not into the hands of Spain ! ' 



XII 



And the gunner said ' Ay, ay,' but the seamen made 

reply : 
' We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, if we yield, to let us 

go; 
We shall live to fight again and to strike another blow.' 
And the lion there lay dying, and they yielded to the 

foe. 



ALFRED TENNYSON 77 

XIII 

And the stately Spanish men to their flagship bore him then, 
Where they laid him by the mast, old Sir Richard caught at 

last, 
And they praised him to his face with their courtly foreign 

grace ; 
But he rose upon their decks, and he cried: 
' I have fought for Queen and Faith like a valiant man and 

true ; 
I have only done my duty as a man is bound to do: 
With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard Grenville die!' 
And he fell upon their decks, and he died. 

XIV 

And they stared at the dead that had been so valiant and 

true, 
And had holden the power and glory of Spain so cheap 
That he dared her with one little ship and his English few; 
Was he devil or man? He was devil for aught they knew, 
But they sank his body with honour down into the deep, 
And they mann'd the Revenge with a swarthier alien crew, 
And away she sail'd with her loss and long'd for her own; 
When a wind from the lands they had ruin'd awoke from 

sleep, 
And the water began to heave and the weather to moan, 
And or ever that evening ended a great gale blew, 
And a wave like the wave that is raised by an earthquake 

grew, 
Till it smote on their hulls and their sails and their masts 

and their flags, 
And the whole sea plunged and fell on the shot-shatter'd 

navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went down by the island crags 
To be lost evermore the main. 

A. Tennyson. 



78 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY 

(By Obadiah Bind-their-kings-in-chains-and-their-nobles-with- 
links-of-iron, Sergeant in Ireton's Regiment.) 

Oh ! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the North, 
With your hands, and your feet, and your raiment all red? 

And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout? 
And whence be the grapes of the wine-press which ye 
tread? 

Oh evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit, 

And crimson was the juice of the vintage that we trod; 

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty and the 
strong, 
Who sate in the high places, and slew the saints of God. 

It was about the noon of a glorious day of June, 

That we saw their banners dance, and their cuirasses shine, 
And the Man of Blood was there, with his long essenced 
hair, 
And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the 
Rhine. 

Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, 
The General rode along us to form us to the fight, 

When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a 
shout 
Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right. 

And hark ! like the roar of the billows on the shore, 
The cry of battle rises along their charging line ! 

For God ! for the Cause ! for the Church ! for the Laws ! 
For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! 

The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, 
His bravoes of Alsatia, and pages of Whitehall; 



THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY 79 

They are bursting on our flanks. Grasp your pikes, close 
your ranks; 
For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall. 

They are here ! They rush on ! We are broken ! We are 
gone ! 
Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. 
O Lord, put forth thy might ! O Lord, defend the right ! 
Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the 
last. 

Stout Skippon hath a wound; the centre hath given ground: 
Hark! hark! — What means the trampling of horsemen on 
our rear? 
Whose banner do I see, boys? 'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he, 
boys. 
Bear up another minute: brave Oliver is here. 

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row, 

Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes, 

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst, 
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes. 

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide 
Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple Bar: 

And he — he turns, he flies: — shame on those cruel eyes 
That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war ! 

Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and, ere ye strip the slain, 
First give another stab to make your search secure, 

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and 
lockets, 
The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor. 

Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were 
gay and bold, 
When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day; 



80 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the 
rocks, 
Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey. 

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell 

and fate, 

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades, 

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, 

Your stage-plaj^s and your sonnets, your diamonds and 

your spades? 

Down, down, for ever down with the mitre and the crown, 
With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the 
Pope! 
There is woe in Oxford Halls: there is wail in Durham's 
Stalls: 
The Jesuit smites his bosom: the Bishop rends his cope. 

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, 
And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's 
sword ; 
And the Kings of earth in fear shall shudder when they 
hear 
What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses and 
the Word. 

T. B. Macaulay. 

PHEIDIPPIDES 

(Xai'pere, vi/caj/u.ei>) 

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock ! 
Gods of my birthplace, daemons and heroes, honor to all ! 
Then I name thee, claim thee for our patron, co-equal in 

praise 
—Ay, with Zeus the Defender, with Her of the aegis and 

spear ! 



ROBERT BROWNING 81 

Also, ye of the bow and the buskin, praised be your peer, 
Now, henceforth and forever, — O latest to whom I upraise 
Hand and heart and voice ! For Athens, leave pasture and 

flock ! 
Present to help, potent to save, Pan — patron I call ! 

Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return! 

See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks! 

Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and 
you, 

' Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid ! 

Persia has come, we are here, where is She?' Your com- 
mand I obeyed, 

Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs 
through, 

Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights 
did I burn 

Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. 

Into their midst I broke: breath served but for 'Persia has 

come ! 
Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth; 
Razed to the ground is Eretria — but Athens, shall Athens 

sink, 
Drop into dust and die — the flower of Hellas utterly die, 
Die, with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the 

stander-by ? 
Answer me quick, what help, what hand do you stretch o'er 

destruction's brink? 
How, — when? No care for my limbs! — there's lightning in 

all and some — 
Fresh and fit your message to bear, once lips give it birth ! ' 

O my Athens — Sparta love thee? Did Sparta respond? 
Every face of her leered in a furrow of envy, mistrust, 



82 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

Malice, — each eye of her gave me its glitter of gratified hate ! 
Gravely they turned to take counsel, to cast for excuses. I 

stood 
Quivering, — the limbs of me fretting as fire frets, an inch 

from dry wood: 
'Persia has come, Athens asks aid, and still they debate? 
Thunder, thou Zeus ! Athene, are Spartans a quarry beyond 
Swing of thy spear? Phoibos and Artemis, clang them 

"Ye must"!' 

No bolt launched from Olumpos ! Lo, their answer at last ! 

' Has Persia come, — does Athens ask aid, — may Sparta be- 
friend? 

Nowise precipitate judgment— too weighty the issue at stake! 

Count we no time lost time which lags through respect to 
the gods ! 

Ponder that precept of old, " No warfare, whatever the odds 

In your favor, so long as the moon, half-orbed, is unable to 
take 

Full-circle her state in the sky ! " Already she rounds to it 
fast: 

Athens must wait, patient as we — who judgment suspend.' 

Athens, — except for that sparkle, — thy name, I had 

mouldered to ash ! 
That sent a blaze through my blood; off, off and away was I 

back, 
— Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and 

the vile ! 
Yet ' O Gods of my land ! ' I cried, as each hillock and 

plain, 
Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them 

again, 
' Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honors we paid you 

erewhile ? 



ROBERT BROWNING 83 

Vain was the filleted victim, the fulsome libation ! Too 

rash 
Love in its choice, paid you so largely service so slack ! 

' Oak and olive and bay, — I bid you cease to enwreathe 
Brows made bold by your leaf! Fade at the Persian's foot, 
You that, our patrons were pledged, should never adorn a 

slave ! 
Rather I hail thee, Parnes, — trust to thy wild waste tract ! 
Treeless, herbless, lifeless mountain ! What matter if 

slacked 
My speed may hardly be, for homage to crag and to cave 
No deity deigns to drape with verdure? at least I can 

breathe, 
Fear in thee no fraud from the blind, no lie from the mute ! ' 

Such my cry as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge; 
Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar 
Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. 
Right ! for I minded the hollow to traverse, the fissure 

across: 
'Where I could enter, there I depart by! Night in the 

fosse ? 
Athens to aid? Though the dive were through Erebos, thus 

I obey — 
Out of the day dive, into the day as bravely arise! No 

bridge 
Better ! ' — when — ha ! what was it I came on, of wonders that 



There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he — majestical Pan! 

Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his 

hoof: 
All the great god was good in the eyes grave-kindly — the 

curl 
Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe, 



84 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. 
' Halt, Pheidippides ! ' — halt I did, my brain of a whirl: 
'Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?' he gracious 

began : 
' How is it, — Athens, only in Hellas, holds me aloof? 

' Athens, she only, rears me no fane, makes me no feast ! 

Wherefore? Than I what godship to Athens more helpful 
of old? 

Ay, and still, and forever her friend ! Test Pan, trust me ! 

Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith 

In the temples and tombs ! Go, say to Athens, " The Goat- 
God saith: 

When Persia — so much as strews not the soil — is cast in the 
sea, 

Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most 
and least, 

Goat-thigh to greaved-thigh, made one cause with the free 
and the bold!" 

' Say Pan saith : " Let this, foreshowing the place, be the 

pledge ! " ' 
(Gay, the liberal hand held out this herbage I bear 
— Fennel — I grasped it a-tremble with dew — whatever it 

bode) 
'While, as for thee' . . . But enough! He was gone. If 

I ran hitherto — 
Be sure that, the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but 

flew. 
Parnes to Athens — earth no more, the air was my road: 
Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the 

razor's edge! 
Pan for Athens, Pan for me ! I too have a guerdon rare ! 

Then spoke Miltiades. ' And thee, best runner of Greece, 
Whose limbs did duty indeed, — what gift is promised thy- 
self? 



ROBERT BROWNING 85 

Tell it us straightway, — Athens the mother demands of her 

son ! ' 
Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length 
His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest 

of his strength 
Into the utterance — 'Pan spoke thus: "For what thou hast 

done 
Count on a worthy reward ! Henceforth be allowed thee 

release 
From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in 

pelf!" 

' I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my 

mind ! 
Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may 

grow — 
Pound — Pan helping us — Persia to dust, and, under the 

deep, 
Whelm her away forever; and then, — no Athens to save, — 
Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave, — 
Hie to my house and home: and, when my children shall 

creep 
Close to my knees, — recount how the God was awful yet 

kind, 
Promised their sire reward to the full — rewarding him — 

so!' 

Unforeseeing one ! Yes, he fought on the Marathon 
day: 

So, when Persia was dust, all cried ' To Akropolis ! 

Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 

" Athens is saved, thank Pan," go shout ! ' He flung down 
his shield, 

Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel- 
field 

And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs 
through, 



86 STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

Till in he broke: ' Rejoice, we conquer! ' Like wine through 

clay, 
Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died — the bliss! 

So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of 

salute 
Is still 'Rejoice!' his word which brought rejoicing in- 
deed. 
So is Pheidippides happy forever, — the noble strong man 
Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a 

god loved so well; 
He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was 

suffered to tell 
Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began, 
So to end gloriously — once to shout, thereafter be mute: 
' Athens is saved ! ' — Pheidippides dies in the shout for his 
meed. 

B. Browning. 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

THE EVE OF ST. AGNES 



St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was ! 
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; 
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass, 
And silent was the flock in woolly fold: 
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told 
His rosary, and while his frosted breath, 
Like pious incense from a censer old, 
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death, 
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. 

II 

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; 
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees, 
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan, 
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees: 
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze, 
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails: 
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries, 
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails 
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. 

Ill 

Northward he turneth through a little door, 
And scarce three steps, ere Music's golden tongue 
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor; 
But no — already had his deathbell rung; 
The joys of all his life were said and sung; 
87 



88 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve: 
Another way he went, and soon among 
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve, 
And all night kept awake, for sinner's sake to grieve. 

IV 

That ancient Beadsman heard the prelude soft; 
And so it chanc'd, for many a door was wide, 
From hurry to and fro. Soon, up aloft, 
The silver,, snarling trumpets 'gan to chide: 
The level chambers, ready with their pride, 
Were glowing to receive a thousand guests: 
The carved angels, ever eager-eyed, 
Stared, where upon their heads the cornice rests, 
With hair blown back, and wings put cross-wise on their 
breasts. 

V 

At length burst in the argent revelry, 
With plume, tiara, and all rich array, 
Numerous as shadows haunting fairily 
The brain, new-stuff' d, in youth, with triumphs gay 
Of old romance. These let us wish away, 
And turn, sole-thoughted, to one Lady there, 
Whose heart had brooded, all that wintry day, 
On love, and wing'd St. Agnes' saintly care, 
As she had heard old dames full many times declare. 

VI 

They told her how, upon St. Agnes' Eve, 
Young virgins might have visions of delight, 
And soft adorings from their loves receive 
Upon the honey'd middle of the night, 
If ceremonies due they did aright; 
As, supperless to bed they must retire, 
And couch supine their beauties, lily white; 



JOHN KEATS 89 

Nor look behind, nor sideways, but require 
Of Heaven with upward eyes for all that they desire. 

VII 

Full of this whim was thoughtful Madeline: 
The music, yearning like a God in pain, 
She scarcely heard: her maiden eyes divine, 
Fix'd on the floor, saw many a sweeping train 
Pass by — she heeded not at all: in vain 
Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 
And back retir'd; not cool'd by high disdain, 
But she saw not: her heart was otherwhere: 
She sigh'd for Agnes' dreams, the sweetest of the year. 

VIII 

She danc'd along with vague, regardless eyes, 
Anxious her lips, her breathing quick and short: 
The hallow'd hour was near at hand: she sighs 
Amid the timbrels, and the throng'd resort 
Of whisperers in anger, or in sport; 
'Mid looks of love, defiance, hate, and scorn, 
Hoodwink'd with faery fancy; all amort, 
Save to St. Agnes and her lambs unshorn, 
And all the bliss to be before to-morrow morn. 

IX 

So, purposing each moment to retire, 
She linger'd still. Meantime, across the moors, 
Had come young Porphyro, with heart on fire 
For Madeline. Beside the portal doors, 
Buttress'd from moonlight, stands he, and implores 
All saints to give him sight of Madeline, 
But for one moment in the tedious hours, 
That he might gaze and worship all unseen; 
Perchance speak, kneel, touch, kiss — in sooth such things 
have been, 



90 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

X 

He ventures in: let no buzz'd whisper tell: 
All eyes be muffled, or a hundred swords 
Will storm his heart, Love's fev'rous citadel: 
For him, those chambers held barbarian hordes, 
Hyena foemen, and hot-blooded lords, 
Whose very dogs would execrations howl 
Against his lineage: not one breast affords 
Him any mercy, in that mansion foul, 
Save one old beldame, weak in body and in soul. 

XI 

Ah, happy chance ! the aged creature came, 
Shuffling along with ivory-headed wand, 
To where he stood, hid from the torch's flame, 
Behind a broad hall-pillar, far beyond 
The sound of merriment and chorus bland: 
He startled her; but soon she knew his face, 
And grasp'd his fingers in her palsied hand, 
Saying, " Mercy, Porphyro ! hie thee from this place ; 
They are all here to-night, the whole blood-thirsty race ! 

XII 

" Get hence ! get hence ! there's dwarfish Hildebrand ; 
He had a fever late, and in the fit 
He cursed thee and thine, both house and land: 
Then there's that old Lord Maurice, not a whit 
More tame for his gray hairs— Alas me ! flit ! 
Flit like a ghost away." — " Ah, Gossip dear, 
We're safe enough; here in this arm-chair sit, 
And tell me how" — "Good Saints; not here, not here: 
Follow me, child, or else these stones will be thy bier." 

XIII 
He follow'd through a lowly arched way, 
Brushing the cobwebs with his lofty plume; 



JOHN KEATS 91 

And as she mutter' d " Well-a — well-a-day ! " 
He found him in a little moonlight room, 
Pale, latticed, chill, and silent as a tomb. 
" Now tell me where is Madeline," said he, 
" O tell me, Angela, by the holy loom 
Which none but secret sisterhood may see, 
When they St. Agnes' wool are weaving piously." 

XIV 

" St. Agnes ! Ah ! it is St. Agnes' Eve- 
Yet men will murder upon holy days; 
Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve, 
And be liege-lord of all the Elves and Fays, 
To venture so: it fills me with amaze 
To see thee, Porphyro ! — St. Agnes' Eve ! 
God's help! my lady fair the conjuror plays 
This very night: good angels her deceive! 
But let me laugh awhile, I've mickle time to grieve." 

XV 

Feebly she laugheth in the languid moon, 
While Porphyro upon her face doth look, 
Like puzzled urchin on an aged crone 
Who keepeth closed a wond'rous riddle-book, 
As spectacled she sits in chimney nook. 
But soon his eyes grew brilliant, when she told 
His lady's purpose; and he scarce could brook 
Tears, at the thought of those enchantments cold, 
And Madeline asleep in lap of legends old. 

XVI 

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose, 
Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart 
Made purple riot: then doth he propose 
A stratagem that makes the beldame start: 
"A cruel man and impious thou art: 



92 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

Sweet lady, let her pray, and sleep, and dream 
Alone with her good angels, far apart 
From wicked men like thee. Go, go ! — I deem 
Thou canst not surely be the same that thou didst seem." 

XVII 

" I will not harm her, by all saints I swear," 
Quoth Porphyro : " O may I ne'er find grace 
When my weak voice shall whisper its last prayer, 
If one of her soft ringlets I displace, 
Or look with ruffian passion in her face: 
Good Angela, believe me by these tears; 
Or I will, even in a moment's space, 
Awake, with horrid shout, my foemen's ears, 
And beard them, though they be more fang'd than wolves 
and bears." 

XVIII 
"Ah! why wilt thou affright a feeble soul? 
A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing, 
Whose passing-bell may ere the midnight toll; 
Whose prayers for thee, each morn and evening, 
Were never miss'd." — Thus plaining, doth she bring 
A gentler speech from burning Porphyro; 
So woful, and of such deep sorrowing, 
That Angela gives promise she will do 
Whatever he shall wish, betide her weal or woe. 

XIX 

Which was, to lead him, in close secrecy, 
Even to Madeline's chamber, and there hide 
Him in a closet, of such privacy 
That he might see her beauty unespied, 
And win perhaps that night a peerless bride, 
While legion'd fairies paced the coverlet, 
And pale enchantment held her sleepy-eyed. 



JOHN KEATS 93 

Never on such a night have lovers met, 
Since Merlin paid his Demon all the monstrous debt. 

XX 

"It shall be as thou wishest," said the Dame: 
" All cates and dainties shall be stored there 
Quickly on this feast-night: by the tambour frame 
Her own lute thou wilt see: no time to spare, 
For I am slow and feeble, and scarce dare 
On such a catering trust my dizzy head. 
Wait here, my child, with patience; kneel in prayer 
The while: Ah! thou must needs the lady wed, 
Or may I never leave my grave among the dead." 

XXI 

So saying, she hobbled off with busy fear. 
The lover's endless minutes slowly pass'd; 
The dame return'd, and whisper'd in his ear 
To follow her; with aged eyes aghast 
From fright of dim espial. Safe at last, 
Through many a dusky gallery, they gain 
The maiden's chamber, silken, hush'd, and chaste; 
Where Porphyro took covert, pleas'd amain. 
His poor guide hurried back with agues in her brain. 

XXII 
Her falt'ring hand upon the balustrade, 
Old Angela was feeling for the stair, 
When Madeline, St. Agnes' charmed maid, 
Rose, like a mission'd spirit, unaware: 
With silver taper's light, and pious care, 
She turn'd, and down the aged gossip led 
To a safe level matting. Now prepare, 
Young Porphyro, for gazing on that bed; 
She comes, she comes again, like ring-dove fray'd and fled. 



94. LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

XXIII 
Out went the taper as she hurried in; 
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died: 
She closed the door, she panted, all akin 
To spirits of the air, and visions wide: 
No utter'd syllable, or, woe betide ! 
But to her heart, her heart was voluble, 
Paining with eloquence her balmy side; 
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell 
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell. 

XXIV 

A casement high and triple-arch'd there was, 
All garlanded with carven imag'ries 
Of fruits, and flowers, and bunches of knot-grass, 
And diamonded with panes of quaint device, 
Innumerable of stains and splendid dyes, 
As are the tiger-moth's deep-damask'd wings; 
And in the midst, 'mong thousand heraldries, 
And twilight saints, and dim emblazonings, 
A shielded scutcheon blush'd with blood of queens and kings* 

XXV 

Full on this casement shone the wintry moon, 
And threw warm gules on Madeline's fair breast. 
As down she knelt for heaven's grace and boon; 
Rose-bloom fell on her hands, together prest, 
And on her silver cross soft amethyst, 
And on her hair a glory, like a saint: 
She seem'd a splendid angel, newly drest, 
Save wings, for heaven: — Porphyro grew faint: 
She knelt so pure a thing, so free from mortal taint. 

XXVI 

Anon his heart revives: her vespers done, 
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees, 



JOHN KEATS 95 

Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one, 
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees 
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees: 
Half-hidden, like a mermaid in sea-weed, 
Pensive awhile she dreams awake, and sees, 
In fancy, fair St. Agnes in her bed, 
But dares not look behind, or all the charm is fled. 

XXVII 

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest, 
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex'd she lay, 
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress'd 
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away; 
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day, 
Blissfully haven'd both from joy and pain, 
Clasp'd like a missal where swart Paynims pray, 
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain, 
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again. 

XXVIII 

Stol'n to this paradise, and so entranced, 
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress, 
And listen'd to her breathing, if it chanced 
To wake into a slumberous tenderness; 
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless, 
And breath'd himself: then from the closet crept, 
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness, 
And over the hush'd carpet, silent, stept, 
And 'tween the curtains peep'd, where, lo ! — how fast she 
slept. 

XXIX 

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon 
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set 
A table, and, half anguish'd, threw thereon 
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet: — 



96 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

O for some drowsy Morphean amulet! 
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion, 
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet, 
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone: — 
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone. 

XXX 

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep, 
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender'd, 
While he from forth the closet brought a heap 
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd, 
With jellies soother than the creamy curd, 
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon, 
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr'd 
From Fez, and spiced dainties, every one, 
From silken Samarcand to cedar'd Lebanon. 

XXXI 

These delicates he heap'd with glowing hand 
On golden dishes and in baskets bright 
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand 
In the retired quiet of the night, 
Filling the chilly room with perfume light. — 
" And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake ! 
Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite: 
Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes' sake, 
Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache." 

XXXII 

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm 

Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream 

By the dusk curtains: — 'twas a midnight charm 

Impossible to nlelt as iced stream: 

The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam; 

Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies: 



JOHN KEATS 97 

It seem'd he never, never could redeem 
From such a steadfast spell his lady's eyes; 
So mus'd awhile, entoil'd in woofed phantasies. 

XXXIII 

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute, — ■ 
Tumultuous, — and, in chords that tenderest be, 
He play'd an ancient ditty, long since mute, 
In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy:" 
Close to her ear touching the melody; — 
Wherewith disturb'd, she utter'd a soft moan; 
He ceased — she panted quick — and suddenly 
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone: 
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone. 

XXXIV 

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld, 
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep: 
There was a painful change, that nigh expell'd 
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep; 
At which fair Madeline began to weep, 
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh; 
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep; 
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye, 
Fearing to move or speak, she look'd so dreamingly. 

XXXV 

" Ah, Porphyro ! " said she, " but even now 
Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear, 
Made tuneable with every sweetest vow; 
And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear: 
How changed thou art ! how pallid, chill, and drear ! 
Give me that voice again, my Porphyro, 
Those looks immortal, those complainings dear! 
Oh leave me not in this eternal woe, 
For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go." 



98 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

XXXVI 

Beyond a mortal man impassion'd far 
At these voluptuous accents, he arose, 
Ethereal, flush'd, and like a throbbing star 
Seen mid the sapphire heaven's deep repose; 
Into her dream he melted, as the rose 
Blendeth its odour with the violet, — 
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows 
Like Love's alarum pattering the sharp sleet 
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes' moon hath set. 

XXXVII 

'Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet: 
" This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline ! " 
'Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat: 
" No dream, alas ! alas ! and woe is mine ! 
Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine. — 
Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring? 
I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine, 
Though thou forsakest a deceived thing — 
A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing." 

XXXVIII 

" My Madeline ! sweet dreamer ! lovely bride ! 
Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest? 
Thy beauty's shield, heart-shaped and vermeil dyed? 
Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest 
After so many hours of toil and quest, 
A famish'd pilgrim, — saved by miracle. 
Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest 
Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think'st well 
To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel. 

XXXIX 

" Hark ! 'tis an elfin storm from faery land, 
Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed: 



JOHN KEATS 99 

Arise — arise! the morning is at hand; — 
The bloated wassailers will never heed: — 
Let us away, my love, with happy speed; 
There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see, — 
Drown'd all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead: 
Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be, 
For o'er the southern moors I have a home for thee." 

XL 

She hurried at his words, beset with fears, 
For there were sleeping dragons all around, 
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears; 
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found; 
In all the house was heard no human sound. 
A chain-droop'd lamp was flickering by each door; 
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound, 
Flutter'd in the besieging wind's uproar; 
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor. 

XLI 

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall; 
Like phantoms to the iron porch they glide, 
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl, 
With a huge empty flagon by his side: 
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide, 
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns: 
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide: — 
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones; 
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans. 

XLII 

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago 

These lovers fled away into the storm. 

That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe, 

And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form 

Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm, 



100 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



Were long be-nightmared. Angela the old 
Died palsy-t witch' d, with meagre face deform; 
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told, 
For aye unsought-for slept among his ashes cold. 

J. Keats. 



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 



IN SEVEN PARTS 



An ancient 
Mariner meet- 
eth three Gal- 
lants bidden to 
a wedding- 
feast, and 
detaineth one. 



Part I 

It is an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

" By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? 

" The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
And I am next of kin; * 

The guests are met, the feast is set: 
May'st hear the merry din." 



The Wedding- 
Guest is spell- 
bound by the 
eye of the old 
seafaring man, 
and constrained 
to hear his tale. 



He holds him with his skinny hand, 

" There was a ship," quoth he. 

" Hold off ! unhand me, gray-beard loon ! " 

Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye — 
The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
And listens like a three years' child: 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: 
He cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 101 

" The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 

Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the lighthouse top. 

The Mariner 

tells how the The sun came up upon the left, 

soith ward with Out of the sea came he! 

a good wind and ^nd ^ e s h one bright, and on the right 
fair weather, till b & 

it reached the Went down into the sea. 
line. 

" Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon — " 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 



The Wedding- The bride hath paced into the hall, 
Guest heareth „ , , 

the bridal mu- Red as a rose is she; 

Mariner con- Nodding their heads before her goes 
tinueth his tale. The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

The ship " And now the Storm-blast came, and he 

st'orm toward Was tyrannous and strong: 
the south pole. He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 

" With sloping masts and dipping prow, 

As who pursued with yell and blow 

Still treads the shadow of his foe, 

And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 

And southward aye we fled. 



102 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



The land of ice, 
and of fearful 
sounds where 
no living thing 
was to be seen. 



" And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold: 
And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
As green as emerald. 

" And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
Did send a dismal sheen: 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
The ice was all between. 






" The ice was here, the ice was there, 

The ice was all around: 

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 

Like noises in a swound! 



Till a great sea- 
bird, called the 
Albatross, came 
through the 
snow-fog, and 
was received 
with great joy 
and hospitality. 



" At length did cross an Albatross, 
Thorough the fog it came; 
As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hailed it in God's name. 



Andlo! the Al- 
batross proveth 
a bird of good 
omen, and fol- 
loweth the ship 
as it returned 
northward 
through fog and 
floating ice. 



" It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
And round and round it flew. 
The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 
The helmsman steered us through! 

"And a good south wind sprung up behind; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariners' hollo! 

" In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 

It perched for vespers nine; 

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 

Glimmered the white moon-shine." 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



103 



The ancient 
Mariner in- 
hospitably 
killeth the 
pious bird of 
good omen. 



" God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 
Why look'st thou so?" — "With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross. 



Part II 

" The Sun now rose upon the right ; 
Out of the sea came he, 
Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

" And the good south wind still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariner's hollo! 



His shipmates 
cry out against 
the ancient 
Mariner, for 
killing the 
bird of good 
luck. 



" And I had done a hellish thing, 

And it would work 'em woe: 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 

That made the breeze to blow. 

' Ah wretch ! ' said they, ' the bird to slay, 

That made the breeze to blow ! ' 



But when the 
fog cleared off, 
they justify the 
same, and thus 
make them- 
selves accom- 
plices in the 
crime. 



The fair breeze 
continues; the 
ship enters the 
Pacific Ocean, 
and sails north- 
ward, even till 
it reaches the 
line 



" Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 

The glorious Sun uprist: 

Then all averred, I had killed the bird 

That brought the fog and mist. 

' 'Twas right,' said they, ' such birds to slay, 

That bring the fog and mist. 

" The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 

The furrow followed free; 

We were the first that ever burst 

Into that silent sea. 



104 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



The ship hath 
been suddenly 
becalmed. 



" Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
'Twas sad as sad could be; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea! 



" All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody Sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 

" Day after day, day after day, 
We stuck, nor breath nor motion; 
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 



And the Alba- 
tross begins to 
be avenged. 



" Water, water, everywhere, 
And all the boards did shrink: 
Water, water, everywhere, 
Nor any drop to drink. 



A spirit had 
followed them ; 
one of the in- 
visible inhabit- 
ants of this 
planet, neither 
departed souls 
nor angels; 
concerning 
whom the 
learned Jew, 
Josephus, and 



" The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
That ever this should be ! 
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

" About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night; 
The water, like a witch's oils, 
Burnt green, and blue, and white. 

" And some in dreams assured were 
Of the Spirit that plagued us so; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 

" And every tongue, through utter drought, 
Was withered at the root; 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



•105 



the Platonic 
Constantino- 
politan, 
Michael 
Psellus, may 
be consulted. 
They are very 
numerous, and 
there is no cli- 
mate or ele- 
ment without 
one or more. 



We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 

" Ah ! well-a-day ! what evil looks 
Had I from old and young ! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 



The shipmates, 
in their sore 
distress, would 
fain throw the 
whole guilt on 
the ancient 
Mariner: in 
sign whereof 
they hang the 
dead sea-bird 
round his neck. 

The ancient 
Mariner be- 
holdeth a sign 
in the element 
afar off. 



Part III 

" There passed a weary time. Each throat 

Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time ! a weary time ! 

How glazed each weary eye, 

When looking westward, I beheld 

A something in the sky. 

" At first it seemed a little speck, 
And then it seemed a mist; 
It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 



At its nearer 
approach, it 
seemeth him to 
be a ship; and 
at a dear ran- 
some he freeth 
his speech from 
the bonds of 
thirst. 



A flash of joy. 



" A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
And still it neared and neared: 
As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
It plunged and tacked and veered. 

" With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 

We could nor laugh nor wail; 

Through utter drought all dumb we stood! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 

And cried, ' A sail ! a sail ! ' 

" With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
Agape they heard me call: 
Gramercy ! they for j oy did grin, 



106 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



And all at once their breath drew in, 
As they were drinking all. 



And horror fol- 
lows; for can it 
be a ship that 
comes onward 
without wind 
or tide? 



"'See! see!' (I cried) 'she tacks no more! 
Hither to work us weal; 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 
She steadies with upright keel ! ' 



" The western wave was all a-flame, 

The day was well-nigh done ! 

Almost upon the western wave 

Rested the broad bright Sun; 

When that strange shape drove suddenly 

Bewixt us and the Sun. 



It seemeth him 
but the skele- 
ton of a ship. 



" And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven's Mother send us grace!) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face. 



And its ribs are 
seen as bars on 
the face of the 
setting Sun. 
The Spectre- 
Woman and 
her death-mate, 
and no other 
on board the 
skeleton ship. 
Like vessel, 
like crew! 



" ' Alas ! ' (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
' How fast she nears and nears ! 
Are those her sails that glance in the sun, 
Like restless gossameres? 

" ' Are those her ribs through which the sun 
Did peer, as through a grate? 
And is that woman all her crew? 
Is that a Death? and are there two? 
Is Death that woman's mate?' 

" Her lips were red, her looks were free, 

Her locks were yellow as gold: 

Her skin was as white as leprosy, 

The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 

Who thicks man's blood with cold. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



107 



Death and Life- 
in-Death have 
diced for the 
ship's crew, 
and she (the 
latter) winneth 
the ancient 
Mariner. 



No twilight 
within the 
courts of the 
Sun. 



" The naked hulk alongside came, 

And the twain were casting dice; 

' The game is done ! I've won ! I've won ! ' 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

"The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out; 
At one stride comes the dark; 
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 



At the rising 
of the Moon, 



" We listened and looked sideways up ! 

Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip ! 

The stars were dim, and thick the night, 

The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white 

From the sails the dew did drip — 

Till clomb above the eastern bar 

The horned Moon, with one bright star 

Within the nether tip. 



one after an- 
other, 



" One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
Too quick for groan or sigh, 
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
And cursed me with his eve. 



his shipmates 
drop down 



" Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 



But Life-in- 
Death begins 
her work on the 
ancient Mar- 
iner. 



" The souls did from their bodies fly, 
They fled to bliss or woe ! 
And every soul, it passed me by, 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 



108 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



Part IV 



The Wedding- 
Guest feareth 
that a spirit is 
talking to him; 



" I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 

I fear thy skinny hand ! 

And thou art long, and lank, and brown. 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 



but the ancient 
Mariner as- 
sureth him of 
his bodily life, 
and proceedeth 
to relate his 
horrible pen- 
ance. 



" I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
" Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
This body dropt not down. 

" Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 



He despiseth 
the creatures of 
the calm, 



" The many men, so beautiful ! 
And they all dead did lie: 
And a thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on; and so did I. 



and envieth 
that they should 
live, and so 
many lie dead. 



" I looked upon the rotting sea, 
And drew my eyes away; 
I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay. 



"I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 



" I closed my lids, and kept them close, 

And the balls like pulses beat; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, 

Lay like a load on my weary eye, 

And the dead were at my feet. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



109 



But the curse 
liveth for him 
in the eye of 
the dead men. 



" The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they: 
The look with which they looked on me 
Had never passed away. 



In his loneli- 
ness and fixed- 
ness he 
yearneth to- 
wards the jour- 
neying Moon, 
and the stars 
that still so- 
journ, yet still 
move onward; 
and everywhere 
the blue sky be- 
longs to them, 
and is their ap- 
pointed rest, 
and their native 
country and 
their own natu- 
ral homes, 
which they en- 
ter unan- 
nounced, as 
lords that are 
certainly ex- 
pected and yet 
there is a silent 
joy at their ar- 
rival. 



By the light of 
the Moon he 
beholdeth 
God's creatures 
of the great 
calm. 



" An orphan's curse would drag to hell 

A spirit from on high; 

But oh ! more horrible than that 

Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! 

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 

And yet I could not die. 

" The moving Moon went up the sky, 
And nowhere did abide: 
Softly she was going up, 
And a star or two beside — 

" Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 

Like April hoar-frost spread; 

But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 

The charmed water burnt alway 

A still and awful red. 

" Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
I watched the water-snakes: 
They moved in tracks of shining white, 
And when they reared, the elfish light 
Fell off in hoary flakes. 



" Within the shadow of the ship 

I watched their rich attire: 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 

They coiled and swam; and every track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 



Their beauty 
and their 
happiness. 



" O happy living things ! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare: 



110 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



He blesseth 
them in his 
heart. 



A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
And I blessed them unaware: 
Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaware. 



The spell be- 
gins to break. 



" The selfsame moment I could pray; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 



Part V 

" Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole! 
To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 
That slid into my soul. 



By grace of the 
holy Mother, 
the ancient 
Mariner is re- 
freshed with 
rain. 



" The silly buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled with dew; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 



He heareth 
sounds and 
seeth strange 
sights and com- 
motions in the 
sky and the 
element. 



" My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank; 
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 

" I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
I was so light- — almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 

" And soon I heard a roaring wind: 
It did not come anear; 
But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 1 1 1 

" The upper air burst into life ! 
And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
To and fro they were hurried about ! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between. 

" And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge; 
And the rain poured clown from one black cloud; 
The Moon was at its edge. 

" The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 

The Moon was at its side: 

Like waters shot from some high crag, 

The lightning fell with never a jag, 

A river steep and wide. 

The bodies of " The loud wind never reached the ship, 

the ship's crew , . , 

are inspirited, i et now the ship moved on ! 

mo d ve t son! liP Beneath the lightning and the Moon 

The dead men gave a groan. 

" They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

" The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 

Yet never a breeze up blew; 

The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 

Where they were wont to do; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 

We were a ghastly crew. 

" The body of my brother's son 
Stood by me, knee to knee: 



112 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



The body and I pulled at one rope, 
But he said nought to me. — " 



but not by the 
souls of the 
men, nor by 
daemons of 
earth or middle 
air, but by a 
blessed troop of 
angelic spirits, 
sent down by 
the invocation 
of the guardian 
saint. 



" I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " 
" Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
Which to their corses came again, 
But a troop of spirits blest: 

" For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 
And clustered round the mast; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 
And from their bodies passed. 



" Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
Then darted to the Sun; 
Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

" Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the sky-lark sing; 
Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning! 

" And now 'twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute; 
And now it is an angel's song, 
That makes the heavens be mute. 



" It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 

A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 

In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 

Singeth a quiet tune. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



113 



The lonesome 
Spirit from the 
south pole car- 
ries on the ship 
as far as the 
line, in obedi- 
ence to the 
angelic troop, 
but still re- 
quireth venge- 
ance. 



" Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe: 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

" Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snow, 
The spirit slid ; and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 
The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 



" The Sun, right up above the mast, 

Had fixed her to the ocean; 

But in a minute she 'gan stir, 

With a short uneasy motion — 

Backwards and forwards half her length, 

With a short uneasy motion. 



The Polar 
Spirit's fellow- 
daemons, the in- 
visible inhabit- 
ants of the ele- 
ment, take part 
in his wrong; 
and two of them 
relate, one to the 
other, that pen- 
ance long and 
heavy for the 
ancient Mar- 
iner hath been 
accorded to the 
Polar Spirit, 
who returneth 
southward. 



" Then, like a pawing horse let go, 
She made a sudden bound: 
It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a swound. 

" How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare; 
But ere my living life returned, 
I heard, and in my soul discerned, 
Two voices in the air. 

" 'Is it he? ' quoth one, ' Is this the man? 
By Him who died on cross, 
With his cruel bow he laid full low 
The harmless Albatross.' 

" ' The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 



114 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.' 

" The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew: 

Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done, 

And penance more will do.' 

Part VI 



The Mariner 
hath been cast 
into a trance; 
for the angelic 
power causeth 
the vessel to 
drive north- 
ward faster 
than hninan 
life could 
endure. 



First Voice 
" ' But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing — 
What makes that ship drive on so fast? 
What is the ocean doing? ' 

Second Voice 
" ' Still as a slave before his lord, 
The ocean hath no blast; 
His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast — ' 

"'If he may know which way to go; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see! how graciously 
She looketh down on him.' 

First Voice 
" ' But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind ? ' 

Second Voice 
' The air is cut away before, 
And closes from behind. 

" ' Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
Or we shall be belated: 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 115 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 
When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 

The supernat- « j wo k e<i an( j we were sailing on 

ural motion is ' ° 

retarded; the As in a gentle weather: 

awake" and 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high; 

his penance xhe dead men stood together, 

begins anew. ° 

" All stood together on the deck, 
For a charnel-dungeon fitter: 
All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
That in the Moon did glitter. 

" The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
Had never passed away: 
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
Nor turn them up to pray. 

The curse is "And now this spell was snapt: once more 

finally ex- , , l ^ 

piated. I viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 

Of what had else been seen — 

" Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 
And having once turned round walks on, 
And turns no more his head; 
Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

" But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made: 
Its path was not upon the sea, 
In ripple or in shade. 

" It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring — 



116 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



And the an- 
cient Mariner 
beholdeth his 
native country 



It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

" Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
Yet she sailed softly too: 
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
On me alone it blew. 

" Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
The lighthouse top I see? 
Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
Is this mine own countree? 



" We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray — 
' O let me be awake, my God ! 
Or let me sleep alway.' 

tw The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
So smoothly it was strewn ! 
And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the Moon. 

" The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock: 
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 



The angelic 
spirits leave the 
dead bodies, 

and appear in 
their own forms 
of light. 



" And the bay was white with silent light, 
Till, rising from the same, 
Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
In crimson colours came. 



" A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were: 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 117 

I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
Oh Christ ! what saw I there ! 

" Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And, by the holy rood ! 
A man all light, a seraph-man, 
On every corse there stood. 

" This seraph-band, each waved his hand ; 
It was a heavenly sight ! 
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light; 

" This seraph-band, each waved his hand: 
No voice did they impart— 
Xo voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 

" But soon I heard the dash of oars ; 
I heard the Pilot's cheer; 
My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

" The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
I heard them coming fast: 
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

" I saw a third — I heard his voice : 

It is the Hermit good! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 

That he makes in the wood. 

He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash away 

The Albatross's blood. 



118 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



Part VII 



The Hermit of 
the wood 



" This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 
How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 



" He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve- — 

He hath a cushion plump: 

It is the moss that wholly hides 

The rotted old oak-stump. 

" The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
* Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
Where are those lights so many and fair, 
That signal made but now?' 



approacheth 
the ship with 
wonder. 



" ' Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit said — 

' And they answered not our cheer ! 

The planks look warped ! and see those sails, 

How thin they are and sere! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 



" ' Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along; 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
That eats the she-wolf's young.' 



" ' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look—' 
(The Pilot made reply) 
'I am a- feared ' — 'Push on, push on! 
Said the Hermit cheerily. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



119 



" The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard. 



The ship sud- 
denly sinketh. 



" Under the water it rumbled on, 
Still louder and more dread: 
It reached the ship, it split the bay; 
The ship went down like lead. 



The ancient 
Mariner is 
saved in the 
Pilot's boat. 



" Stunned by that loud r.nd dreadful sound. 

Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days drowned 

My body lay afloat; 

But, swift as dreams, myself I found 

Within the Pilot's boat. 



" Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round; 
And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

" I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit; 
The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
And prayed where he did sit. 

" I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long, and all the while 

His eyes went to and fro. 

' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see, 

The Devil knows how to row.' 



" And now, all in my own countree, 
I stood on the firm land! 



120 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 



The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
And scarcely he could stand. 



The ancient 
Mariner ear- 
nestly entreat- 
eth the Hermit 
to shrieve him; 
and the pen- 
ance of life falls 
on him. 



And ever and 
anon through- 
out his future 
life an agony 
constraineth 
him to travel 
from land to 
land, 



" ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! ' 
The Hermit crossed his brow. 
' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — 
What manner of man art thou?' 

" Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 

With a woful agony, 

Which forced me to begin my tale; 

And then it left me free. 

" Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns; 
And till my ghastly tale is told, 
This heart within me burns. 



" I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
I have strange power of speech; 
That moment that his face I see, 
I know the man that must hear me: 
To him my tale I teach. 

" What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 

The wedding-guests are there: 

But in the garden-bower the bride 

And bride-maids singing are: 

And hark the little vesper bell, 

Which biddeth me to prayer! 



" O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea: 
So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 



121 



" O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
'Tis sweeter far to me, 
To walk together to the kirk 
With a goodly company! — 

" To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends, 

Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 

And youths and maidens gay ! 



and to teach, 
by his own ex- 
ample, love 
and reverence 
to all things 
that God made 
and loyeth. 



" Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 



" He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small; 
For the dear God who loveth us, 
He made and loveth all." 

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 
Is gone: and now the AVedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom's door. 



He went like one that hath been stunned, 
And is of sense forlorn: 
A sadder and a wiser man, 
He rose the morrow morn. 

8. T. Coleridge. 



122 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

SOHRAB AND RUSTUM 

AN EPISODE 

And the first grey of morning fill'd the east, 
And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. 
But all the Tartar camp along the stream 
Was hush'd, and still the men were plunged in sleep; 
Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long- 
He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed; 
But when the grey dawn stole into his tent, 
He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, 
And took his horseman's cloak, and left his tent, 
And went abroad into the cold wet fog, 
Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa's tent. 

Through the black Tartar tents he passed, which stood 
Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand 
Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o'erflow 
When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere ; 
Through the black tents he pass'd, o'er that low strand, 
And to a hillock came, a little back 
From the stream's brink — the spot where first a boat, 
Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. 
The men of former times had crown'd the top 
With a clay fort; but that was fall'n, and now 
The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa's tent, 
A dome of laths, and o'er it felts were spread. 
And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood 
Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent, 
And found the old man sleeping on his bed 
Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. 
And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step 
Was dull'd; for he slept light, an old man's sleep; 
And he rose quickly on one arm, and said: — 

' Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn. 
Speak ! is there news, or any night alarm ? ' 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 123 

But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said: — 
1 Thou know'st me, Peran-Wisa ! it is I. 
The sun is not yet risen, and the foe 
Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie 
Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. 
For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek 
Thy counsel, and to heed thee as thy son, 
In Samarcand, before the army march'd; 
And I " will tell thee what my heart desires. 
Thou know'st if, since from Ader-baijan first 
I came among the Tartars and bore arms, 
I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, 
At my boy's years, the courage of a man. 
This too thou know'st, that while I still bear on 
The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world, 
And beat the Persians back on every field, 
I seek one man, one man, and one alone — - 
Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet, 
Should one day greet, upon some well-fought field 
His not unworthy, not inglorious son. 
So I long hoped, but him I never find. 
Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. 
Let the two armies rest to-day; but I 
Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords 
To meet me, man to man? if I prevail, 
Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall — 
Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. 
Dim is the rumour of a common fight, 
Where host meets host, and many names are sunk; 
But of a single combat fame speaks clear.' 

He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the hand 
Of the young man in his, and sigh'd, and said: — 

' O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine ! 
Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, 
And share the battle's common chance with us 
Who love thee, but must press for ever first, 



124 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

In single fight incurring single risk, 

To find a father thou hast never seen? 

That were far best, my son, to stay with us 

Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war, 

And when 'tis truce, then in Afrasiab's towns. 

But, if this one desire indeed rules all, 

To seek out Rustum — seek him not through fight ! 

Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, 

O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son ! 

But far hence seek him, for he is not here. 

For now it is not as when I was young, 

When Rustum was in front of every fray; 

But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, 

In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. 

Whether that his own mighty strength at last 

Feels the abhorr'd approaches of old age, 

Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. 

There go ! — Thou wilt not ? Yet my heart forebodes 

Danger or death awaits thee on this field. 

Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost 

To us; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace 

To seek thy father, not seek single fights 

In vain; — but who can keep the lion's cub 

From ravening, and who govern Rustum's son? 

Go, I will grant thee what thy heart desires.' 

So said he, and dropp'd Sohrab's hand, and left 
His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay; 
And- o'er his chilly limbs his woollen coat 
He pass'd, and tied his sandals on his feet, 
And threw a white cloak round him, and he took 
In his right hand a ruler's staff, no sword; 
And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, 
Black, glossy, curl'd, the fleece of Kara-Kul; 
And rais'd the curtain of his tent, and call'd 
His herald to his side, and went abroad. 

The sun by this had risen, and clear'd the fog 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 125 

From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. 

And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed 

Into the open plain: so Haman bade — 

Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled 

The host, and still was in his lusty prime. 

From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream'd; 

As when some grey November morn the files, 

In marching order spread, of long-necked cranes 

Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes 

Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, 

Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound 

For the warm Persian sea-board — so they stream'd. 

The Tartars of the Oxus, the King's guard, 

First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears; 

Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara come 

And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. 

Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south, 

The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, 

And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands; 

Light men and on light steeds, who only drink 

The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. 

And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came 

From far, and a more doubtful service own'd; 

The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks 

Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards 

And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder hordes 

Who roam o'er Kipchak and the northern waste, 

Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzacks, tribes who stray 

Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, 

Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere; 

These all filed out from camp into the plain. 

And on the other side the Persians form'd; — 

First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem'd, 

The Ilyats of Khorassan; and behind, 

The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, 

Marshall'd battalions bright in burnish'd steel. 



126 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, 

Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, 

And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. 

And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw 

That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, 

He took his spear, and to the front he came, 

And check'd his ranks, and fix'd them where they stood. 

And the old Tartar came upon the sand 

Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said: — 

' Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear ! 
Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. 
But choose a champion from the Persian lords 
To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.' 

As, in the country, on a morn in June, 
When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, 
A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy — 
So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, 
A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran 
Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved. 

But as a trooj) of pedlars, from Cabool, 
Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, 
That vast sky-neighboring mountain of milk snow; 
Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass 
Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, 
Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves 
Slake their parch'd throats with sugar'd mulberries— 
In single file they move, and stop their breaths, 
For fear they should dislodge the o'erhanging snows — 
So the pale Persians held their breath with fear. 

And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up 
To counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came, 
And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host 
Second, and was the uncle of the King; 
These came and counsell'd, and then Gudurz said: — 

' Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, 
Yet champion have we none to match this youth. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 127 

He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart. 

But Rustum came last night; aloof he sits 

And sullen, and has pitched his tents apart. 

Him will I seek, and carry to his ear 

The Tartar challenge, and this young man's name; 

Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. 

Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up.' 

So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and cried: — 
' Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said ! 
Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.' 

He spake; and Peran-Wisa turn'd, and strode 
Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. 
But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, 
And cross'd the camp which lay behind, and reach'd, 
Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum's tents. 
Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay, 
Just pitch'd; the high pavilion in the midst 
Was Rustum's, and his men lay camp'd around. 
And Gudurz enter'd Rustum's tent, and found 
Rustum; his morning meal was done, but still 
The table stood before him, charged with food — 
A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread, 
And dark green melons; and there Rustum sate 
Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, 
And play'd with it; but Gudurz came and stood 
Before him; and he look'd, and saw him stand, 
And with a cry sprang up and dropp'd the bird, 
And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said: — 

' Welcome ! these eyes could see no better sight. 
What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink.' 

But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said: — 
' Not now ! a time will come to eat and drink, 
But not to-day; to-day has other needs. 
The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze; 
For from the Tartars is a challenge brought 
To pick a champion from the Persian lords 



128 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

To fight their champion — and thou know'st his name — 

Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. 

O Rustum, like thy might is this young man's! 

He has the wild stag's foot, the lion's heart; 

And he is young, and Iran's chiefs are old, 

Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee. 

Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose ! ' 

He spoke; but Rustum answer'd with a smile: — 
' Go to ! if Iran's chiefs are old, then I 
Am older; if the young are weak, the King 
Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosroo, 
Himself is young, and honors younger men, 
And lets the aged moulder to their graves. 
Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young — 
The young may rise at Sohrab's vaunts, not I. 
For what care I, though all speak Sohrab's fame? 
For would that I myself had such a son, 
And not that one slight helpless girl I have — 
A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, 
And I to tarry with the snow-hair'd Zal, 
My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, 
And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, 
And he has none to guard his weak old age. 
There would I go, and hang my armour up, 
And with my great name fence that weak old man, 
And spend the goodly treasures I have got, 
And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab's fame, 
And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, 
And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more. 

He spoke, and smiled ; and Gudurz made reply : — 
' What then, O Rustum, will men say to this, 
When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks 
Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, 
Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men should say: 
Like some old miser, Rustum, hoards his fame, 
And shuns to -peril it with younger men.' 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 129 

And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply: — 
'O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words? 
Thou knowest better words than this to say. 
What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, 
Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? 
Are not they mortal, am not I myself ? 
But who for men of nought would do great deeds? 
Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame ! 
But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms; 
Let not men say of Rustum, he was match'd 
In single fight with any mortal man.' 

He spoke, and frown'd; and Gudurz tuvn'd, and ran 
Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy — 
Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. 
But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and call'd 
His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, 
And clad himself in steel; the arms he chose 
Were plain, and on his shield was no device, 
Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, 
And, from the fluted spine atop, a plume 
Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume. 
So arm'd, he issued forth; and Ruksh, his horse, 
Followed him like a faithful hound at heel — 
Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth, 
The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once 
Did in Bokhara by the river find 
A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, 
And rear'd him; a bright bay, with lofty crest, 
Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider'd green 
Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work'd 
All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know. 
So follow'd, Rustum left his tents, and cross'd 
The camp, and to the Persian host appear'd. 
And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts 
Hail'd; but the Tartars knew not who he was. 
And dear as the wet diver to the eyes 



ISO LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, 
By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, 
Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, 
Having made up his tale of precious pearls, 
Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands — 
So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came. 

And Rustum to the Persian front advanced, 
And Sohrab arm'd in Hainan's tent, and came. 
And as afield the reapers cut a swath 
Down through the middle of a rich man's corn, 
And on each side are squares of standing corn, 
And in the midst a stubble, short and bare — 
So on each side were squares of men, with spears 
Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. 
And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast 
His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw 
Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came. 

As some rich woman, on a winter's morn, 
Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge 
Who with numb blacken'd fingers makes her fire — 
At cock-crow, on a starlit winter's morn, 
When the frost flowers the whiten'd window-panes — 
And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts 
Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyed 
The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar 
Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth 
All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused 
His spirited air, and wonder'd who he was. 
For very young he seem'd, tenderly rear'd; 
Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight, 
Which in a queen's secluded garden throws 
Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, 
By midnight, to a bubbling fountain's sound- 
So slender Sohrab seem'd, so softly rear'd. 
And a deep pity enter'd Rustum's soul 
As he beheld him coming; and he stood, 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 131 

And beckon' d to him with his hand, and said: — 

' O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft, 
And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold! 
Heaven's air is better than the cold dead grave. 
Behold me ! I am vast, and clad in iron, 
And tried; and I have stood on many a field 
Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe — 
Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. 
O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death? . 
Be govern'd ! quit the Tartar host, and come 
To Iran, and be as my son to me, 
And fight beneath my banner till I die ! 
There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.' 

So he spake, mildly; Sohrab heard his voice, 
The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw 
His giant figure planted on the sand, 
Sole, like some single tower, which a chief 
Hath builded on the waste in former years 
Against the robbers; and he saw that head, 
Streak'd with its first grey hairs; — hope filled his soul, 
And he ran forward and embraced his knees, 
And clasp'd his hand within his own, and said: — 

' O, by thy father's head ; by thine own soul ! 
Art thou not Rustum? speak! art thou not he?' 

But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, 
And turn'd away, and spake to his own soul: — 

' Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean ! 
False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. 
For if I now confess this thing he asks, 
And hide it not, but say: Rustum is here! 
He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, 
But he will find some pretext not to fight, 
And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, 
A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. 
And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab's hall, 
In Samarcand, he will arise and cry: 



132 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

" I challenged once, when the two armies camp'd 
Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords 
To cope with me in single fight; but they 
Shrank, only Rustum dared; then he and I 
Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away." 
So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud; 
Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me.' 

And then he turn'd, and sternly spake aloud: — 
' Rise ! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus 
Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call'd 
By challenge forth ; make good thy vaunt, or yield ! 
Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight? 
Rash boy, men look on Rustum's face and flee ! 
For well I know, that did great Rustum stand 
Before thy face this day, and were reveal' d, 
There would be then no talk of fighting more. 
But being what I am, I tell thee this — 
Do thou record it in thine inmost soul: 
Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield, 
Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds 
Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods, 
Oxns in summer wash them all away.' 

He spoke; and Sohrab answer'd, on his feet:— 
' Art thou so fierce ? Thou wilt not fright me so ! 
I am no girl, to be made pale by words. 
Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand 
Here on this field, there were no fighting then. 
But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. 
Begin ! thou art more vast, more dread than I, 
And thou art proved, I know, and I am young — 
But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. 
And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure 
Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. 
For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, 
Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, 
Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 133 

And whether it will heave us up to land, 

Or whether it will roll us out to sea, 

Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, 

We know not, and no search will make us know; 

Only the event will teach us in its hour.' 

He spoke, and Rustum answered not, hut hurfd 
His spear; down from the shoulder, down it came, 
As on some partridge in the corn a hawk, 
That long has tower'd in the airy clouds, 
Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come, 
And sprang aside, quick as a flash; the spear 
Hiss'd, and went quivering down into the sand, 
Which it sent flying wide; — then Sohrab threw 
In turn, and full struck Rustum's shield; sharp rang, 
The iron plates rang sharp, but turn'd the spear. 
And Rustum seized his club, which none but he 
Could wield; an unlopp'd trunk it was, and huge, 
Still rough — like those which men in treeless plains 
To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, 
Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up 
By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time 
Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack, 
And strewn the channels with torn boughs — so huge 
The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck 
One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside, 
Lithe as the glancing make, and the club came 
Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum's hand. 
And Rustum follow'd his own blow, and fell 
To his knees, and with his fingers clutched the sand; 
And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, 
And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay 
Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand; 
But he look'd on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, 
But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said: — 

' Thou strik'st too hard ! that club of thine will float 
Upon the summer floods, and not my bones. 



134 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

But rise, and be not wroth ! not wroth am I : 

No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. 

Thou say'st, thou art not Rustum; be it so! 

Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul? 

Boy as I am, I have seen battles too — 

Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, 

And heard their hollow roar of dying men; 

But never was my heart thus touch'd before. 

Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart? 

O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! 

Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, 

And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, 

And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, 

And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum's deeds. 

There are enough foes in the Persian host, 

Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang; 

Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou 

May'st fight; fight them, when they confront thy spear: 

But oh, let there be peace 'twixt thee and me ! ' 

He ceased, but while he spake, Rustum had risen, 
And stood erect, trembling with rage; his club 
He left to lie, but had regain'd his spear, 
Whose fiery point now in his mail'd right-hand 
Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, 
The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soil'd 
His stately crest, and dimm'd his glittering arms. 
His breast heaved, his lips foam'd, and twice his voice 
Was choked with rage; at last these words broke way:— 

' Girl ! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands ! 
Curl'd minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words ! 
Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more ! 
Thou art not in Afrasiab's gardens now 
With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance; 
But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance 
Of battle, and with me, who make no play 
Of war; I fight it out, and hand to hand. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 135 

Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! 
Remember all thy valour; try thy feints 
And cunning! all the pity I had is gone; 
Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts 
With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl's wiles.' 

He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, 
And he too drew his sword; at once they rush'd 
Together, as two eagles on one prey 
Come rushing down together from the clouds, 
One from the east, one from the west; their shields 
Dash'd with a clang together, and a din 
Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters 
Make often in the forest's heart at morn, 
Of hewing axes, crashing trees — such blows 
Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail'd. 
And you would say that sun and stars took part 
In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud 
Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark'd the sun 
Over the fighters' heads; and a wind rose 
Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, 
And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp'd the pair. 
In gloom they twain were wrapp'd, and they alone; 
For both the on-looking hosts on either hand 
Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, 
And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. 
But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes 
And labouring breath; first Rustum struck the shield 
Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear 
Rent the tough plates, but fail'd to reach the skin, 
And Rustum pluck'd it back with angry groan. 
Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum's helm, 
Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest 
He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, 
Never till now defiled, sank to the dust; 
And Rustum bow'd his head; but then the gloom 
Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, 



6 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, 

Who stood at hand, utter'd a dreadful cry; — 

No horse's cry was that, most like the roar 

Of some pain'd desert-lion, who all day 

Hath traifd the hunter's javelin in his side, 

And comes at night to die upon the sand. 

The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, 

And Oxus curdled as it cross'd his stream. 

But Sohrab heard, and quail'd not, but rush'd on, 

And struck again; and again Rustum bow'd 

His head; but this time all the blade, like glass, 

Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, 

And in the hand the hilt remain'd alone. 

Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes 

Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, 

And shouted: Rustum! — Sohrab heard that shout, 

And shrank amazed; back he recoil'd one step, 

And scanned with blinking eyes the advancing form; 

And then he stood bewilder'd; and he dropp'd 

His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. 

He reel'd, and staggering back, sank to the ground; 

And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, 

And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all 

The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair — 

Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, 

And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand. 

Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began: — 
' Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill 
A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse, 
And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab's tent. 
Or else that the great Rustum would come down 
Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move 
His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. 
And then that all the Tartar host would praise 
Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, 
To glad thy father in his weak old age. 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 137 

Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man ! 
Dearer to the reel jackals shalt thou be 
Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.' 

And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied: — - 
' Unknown thou art ; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. 
Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man ! 
No ! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. 
For were I match' d with ten such men as thee, 
And I were that which till to-day I was, 
They should be lying here, I standing there. 
But that beloved name unnerved my arm — 
That name, and something, I confess, in thee, 
Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield 
Fall; and thy spear transfix' d an unarm' d foe. 
And now thou boastest, and insult'st my fate. 
But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear; 
The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death ! 
My father, whom I seek through all the world, 
He shall avenge my death, and punish thee ! ' 

As when some hunter in the spring hath found 
A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, 
Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, 
And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, 
And follow'd her to find her where she fell 
Far off; — anon her mate conies winging back 
From hunting, and a great way off descries 
His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks 
His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps 
Circles above his eyry, with loud screams 
Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she 
Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, 
In some far stony gorge out of his ken, 
A heap of fluttering feathers— never more 
Shall the lake glass her, flying over i 1 :; 
Never the black and dripping precipices 
Echo her stormy scream as she sails by — 



138 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, 
So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood 
Over his dying son, and knew him not. 

But, with a cold incredulous voice, he said: — 
'What prate is this of fathers and revenge? 
The mighty Rustum never had a son.' 

And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied: — 
' Ah yes, he had ! and that lost son am I. 
Surely the news will one day reach his ear, 
Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, 
Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here; 
And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap 
To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. 
Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son ! 
What will that grief, what will that vengeance be? 
Oh, could I live, till I that grief have seen ! 
Yet him I pity not so much, but her, 
My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells 
With that old king, her father, who grows grey 
With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. 
Her most I pity, who no more will see 
Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, 
With spoils and honour, when the war is done. 
But a dark rumour will be bruited up, 
From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; 
And then will that defenceless woman learn 
That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more, 
But that in battle with a nameless foe, 
By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.' 

He spoke ; and as he ceased, he wept aloud, 
Thinking of her he left, and his own death. 
He spoke; but Rustum listen'd, plunged in thought. 
Nor did he yet believe it was his son 
Who spoke, although he call'd back names he knew; 
For he had had sure tidings that the babe, 
W 7 hich was in Ader-baijan born to him, 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 139 

Had been a puny girl, no boy at all — 

So that sad mother sent him word, for fear 

Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. 

And so he deem'd that either Sohrab took, 

By a false boast, the style of Rustum's son; 

Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. 

So deem'd he; yet he listen'd, plunged in thought; 

And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide 

Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore 

At the full moon; tears gather'd in his eyes; 

For he remember'd his own early youth, 

And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, 

The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries 

A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, 

Through many rolling clouds — so Rustum saw 

His youth; saw Sohrab's mother, in her bloom; 

And that old king, her father, who loved well 

His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child 

With joy; and all the pleasant life they led, 

They three, in that long-distant summer-time — 

The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt 

And hound, and morn on those delightful hills 

In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, 

Of age and looks to be his own dear son, 

Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand, 

Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe 

Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, 

Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, 

And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, 

On the mown, dying grass — so Sohrab lay, 

Lovely in death, upon the common sand. 

And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said: — 

' O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son 
Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved. 
Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men 
Have told thee false — thou art not Rustum's son. 



140 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

For Ruslum had no son; one child he had — 
But one — a girl; who, with her mother now 
Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us — 
Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.' 

But Sohrab answer' d him in wrath; for now 
The anguish of the deep-fix'd spear grew fierce, 
And he desired to draw forth the steel, 
And let the blood flow free, and so to die — 
But first he would convince his stubborn foe; 
And, rising sternly on one arm, he said: — 

' Man, who art thou who dost deny my words? 
Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, 
And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. 
I tell thee, prick'd upon this arm I bear 
That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, 
That she might prick it on the babe she bore.' 

He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum's cheeks, 
And his knees totter'd, and he smote his hand 
Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, 
That the hard iron corslet clank' d aloud; 
And to his heart he press' d the other hand, 
And in a hollow voice he spake, and said: — 

' Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie ! 
If thou show this, then art thou Rustum's son.' 

Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed 
His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, 
And show'd a sign in faint vermilion points 
Prick'd; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, 
Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, 
An emperor's gift — at early morn he paints, 
And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp 
Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands — 
So delicately prick'd the sign appear'd 
On Sohrab's arm, the sign of Rustum's seal. 
It was that griffin, which of old rear'd Zal, 
Rustum's great father, whom they left to die, 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 141 

A helpless babe, among the mountain rocks; 

Him that kind creature found, and rear'd, and loved — 

Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. 

And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, 

And himself scann'd it long with mournful eyes, 

And then he touched it with his hand and said: — 

' How say'st thou ? Is that sign the proper sign 
Of Rustum's son, or of some other man's? ' 

He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood 
Speechless; and then he utter'd one sharp cry: 

boy — thy father! — and his voice choked there. 
And then a dark cloud pass'd before his eyes, 
And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. 
But Sohrab crawl'd to where he lay, and cast 
His arms about his neck, and kiss'd his lips, 

And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, 
Trying to call him back to life; and life 
Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, 
And they stood wide with horror; and he seized 
In both his hands the dust which lay around, 
And threw it on his head, and smirch'd his hair, — 
His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms; 
And strong convulsive groaning shook his breast, 
And his sobs choked him; and he clutch'd his sword, 
To draw it, and for ever let life out. 
But Sohrab saw his thought, and held his hands, 
And with a soothing voice he spake, and said: — 

' Father, forbear ! for I but meet to-day 
The doom which at my birth was written down 
I/i Heaven, and thou art Heaven's unconscious hand. 
Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, 
When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, 

1 know it ! but fate trod those promptings down 
Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged 

The strife, and hurl'd me on my father's spear. 
But let us speak no more of this ! I find 



142 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

My father ; let me feel that I have found ! 
Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take 
My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, 
And wash them with thy tears, and say: My son! 
Quick ! quick ! for numbered are my sands of life, 
And swift; for like the lightning to this field 
I came, and like the wind I go away — 
Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. 
But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.' 

So said he, and his voice released the heart 
Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast 
His arms round his son's neck, and wept aloud, 
And kiss'd him. And awe fell on both the hosts, 
When they saw Rustum's grief; and Ruksh, the horse, 
With his head bowing to the ground and mane 
Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe 
First to the one then to the other moved 
His head, as if inquiring what their grief 
Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, 
The big warm tears roll'd down, and caked the sand. 
But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said: — 

' Ruksh, now thou grievest ; but, O Ruksh, thy feet 
Should first have rotted on their nimble joints, 
Or ere they brought thy master to this field ! ' 

But Sohrab look'd upon the horse and said: — 
' Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past days, 
My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, 
My terrible father's terrible horse ! and said, 
That I should one day find thy lord and thee. 
Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane ! 
O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I ; 
For thou hast gone where I shall never go, 
And snuff'd the breezes of my father's home. 
And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan, 
And seen the river of Helmund, and the Lake 
Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 143 

Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, 

Corn in a golden platter soaked with wine, 

And said: O Ruksh! bear Rustum well! — but I 

Have never known my grandsire's furrow'd face, 

Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, 

Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream; 

But lodged among my father's foes, and seen 

Afrasiab's cities only, Samarcand, 

Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, 

And the black Toorkmun tents; -nd only drunk 

The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, 

Kohik, and where the Kahnuks feed their sheep, 

The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream, 

The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die,' 

Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewail'd: — 
' Oh, that its waves were flowing over me ! 
Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt 
Roll tumbling in the current o'er my head!' 

But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied: — 
' Desire not that, my father ! thou must live. 
For some are born to do great deeds, and live, 
As some are born to be obscured, and die. 
Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, 
And reap a second glory in thine age; 
Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. 
But come; thou seest this great host of men 
Which follow me ; I p ray thee, slay not these ! 
Let me intreat for them; what have they done? 
They follow'd me, my hope, my fame, my star. 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. 
But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, 
But carry me with thee to Seistan, 
And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, 
Thou, and the snow-hair'd Zal, and all thy friends. 
And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above my bones, 



144 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

And plant a far-seen pillar over all. 
That so the passing horseman on the waste 
May see my tomb a great way off, and cry: 
Sohrab, the mighty Rustum's son, lies there, 
Whom his great father did in ignorance kill! 
And I be not forgotten in my grave.' 

And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied: — 
' Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, 
So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, 
And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, 
And carry thee away to Seistan, 
And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, 
With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. 
And I will lay thee in that lovely earth, 
And heap a stately mound above thy bones, 
And plant a far-seen pillar over all, 
And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. 
And I will spare thy host ; yea, let them go ! 
Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace! 
What should I do with slaying any more? 
For would that all that I have ever slain 
Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes, 
And they who were call'd champions in their time, 
And through whose death I won that fame I have — 
And I were nothing but a common man, 
A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, 
So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! 
Or rather would that I, even I myself, 
Might now be lying on this bloody sand, 
Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, 
Not thou of mine! and I might die, not thou; 
And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan; 
And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine; 
And say: O soft, I iveep thee not too sore, 
For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end! 
But now in blood and battles was my youth, 



MATTHEW ARNOLD 145 

And full of blood and battles is my age, 
And I shall never end this life of blood.' 

Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied: — 
' A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man ! 
But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now, 
Not yet ! but thou shalt have it on that day, 
When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, 
Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, 
Returning home over the salt blue sea, 
From laying thy dear master in his grave.' 

And Rustum gazed in Sohrab's face, and said: — 
' Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea ! 
Till then, if fate so wills, let me endure.' 

He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took 
The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased 
His wound's imperious anguish; but the blood 
Came welling from the open gash, and life 
Flow'd with the stream; — all down his cold white side 
The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil'd, 
Like the soil'd tissue of white violets, 
Left, freshly gather'd, on their native bank, 
By children whom their nurses call with haste 
Indoors from the sun's eye; his head droop'd low, 
His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay — 
White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps, 
Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, 
Convulsed him back to life, he open'd them, 
And fixed them feebly on his father's face; 
Till now all strength was ebb'd, and from his limbs 
Unwillingly, the spirit fled away, 
Regretting the warm mansion which it left, 
And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world. 

So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead; 
And the great Rustum drew his horseman's cloak 
Down o'er his face, and sate by his dead son. 
As those black granite pillars, once high-rear'd 



146 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear 
His house, now mid their broken flights of steps 
Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side — 
So in the sand lay Rustum by his son. 

And night came down over the solemn waste, 
And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, 
And darken'd all; and a cold fog, with night, 
Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, 
As of a great assembly loosed, and fires 
Began to twinkle through the fog; for now 
Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal; 
The Persians took it on the open sands 
Southward, the Tartars by the river marge; 
And Rustum and his son were left alone. 

But the majestic river floated on, 
Out of the mist and hum of that low land, 
Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, 
Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste, 
Under the solitary moon; — he flow'd 
Right for the polar star, past Orgunje, 
Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin 
To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, 
And split his currents; that for many a league 
The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along 
Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles — 
Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had 
In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, 
A foil'd circuitous wanderer — till at last 
The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide 
His luminous home of waters opens, bright 
And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars 
Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. 

M. Arnold. 



ALEXANDER POPE 147 

THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 

Canto I 

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs, 
What mighty contests rise from trivial things, 
I sing — This verse to Caryll, Muse! is due: 
This, ev'n Belinda may vouchsafe to view: 
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise, 
If she inspire, and he approve my lays. 

Say what strange motive, Goddess ! could compel 
A well-bred lord t' assault a gentle belle? 
O say what stranger cause, yet unexplor'd, 
Could make a gentle belle reject a lord? 
In tasks so bold, can little men engage, 
And in soft bosoms dwell such mighty rage? 

Sol thro' white curtains shot a tim'rous ray, 
And ope'd those eyes that must eclipse the day; 
Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake, 
And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake; 
Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knock'd the ground, 
And the press'd watch return'd a silver sound. 
Belinda still her downy pillow prest, 
Her guardian Sylph prolong' d the balmy rest: 
'Twas he had summon'd to her silent bed 
The morning dream that hover'd o'er her head; 
A youth more glitt'ring than a Birth-night Beau, 
(That ev'n in slumber caused her cheek to glow) 
Seem'd to her ear his winning lips to lay, 
And thus in whispers said, or seem'd to say: 

" Fairest of mortals, thou distinguish'd care 
Of thousand bright Inhabitants of Air ! 
If e'er one vision touch'd thy infant thought, 
Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught — 
Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen, 
The silver token, and the circled green, 



148 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

Or virgins visited by Angel-pow'rs, 

With golden crowns and wreaths of heav'nly flow'rs- 

Hear and believe ! thy own importance know, 

Nor bound thy narrow views to things below. 

Some secret truths, from learned pride conceal'd, 

To maids alone and children are reveal'd. 

What tho' no credit doubting Wits may give? 

The fair and innocent shall still believe. 

Know, then, unnumber'd Spirits round thee fly, 

The light militia of the lower sky: 

These, tho' unseen, are ever on the wing, 

Hang o'er the Box, and hover round the Ring. 

Think what an equipage thou hast in air, 

And view with scorn two pages and a chair. 

As now your own, our beings were of old, 

And once inclos'd in woman's beauteous mould; 

Thence by a soft transition, we repair 

From earthly vehicles to these of air. 

Think not, when woman's transient breath is fled, 

That all her vanities at once are dead; 

Succeeding vanities she still regards, 

And tho' she plays no more, o'erlooks the cards. 

Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive, 

And love of Ombre, after death survive. 

For when the Fair in all their pride expire, 

To their first elements their souls retire. 

The sprites of fiery termagants in flame 

Mount up, and take a Salamander's name. 

Soft yielding minds to water glide away, 

And sip, with Nymphs, their elemental tea. 

The graver prude sinks downward to a Gnome, 

In search of mischief still on earth to roam. 

The light coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair, 

And sport and flutter in the fields of air. 

" Know further yet : whoever fair and chaste 
Rejects mankind, is by some Sylph embrac'd; 



ALEXANDER POPE 14-9 

For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with ease 

Assume what sexes and what shapes they please. 

What guards the purity of melting maids, 

In courtly balls and midnight masquerades, 

Safe from the treach'rous friend, the daring spark, 

The glance by day, the whisper in the dark, 

When kind occasion prompts their warm desires, 

When music softens, and when dancing fires? 

'Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know, 

Tho' Honour is the word with men below. 

Some Nymphs there are, too conscious of their face, 

For life predestin'd to the Gnome's embrace. 

These swell their prospects and exalt their pride, 

When offers are disdain'd, and love deny'd; 

Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain, 

While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train, 

And garters, stars, and coronets appear, 

And in soft sounds, ' Your Grace ' salutes their ear. 

'Tis these that early taint the female soul, 

Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll, 

Teach infant-cheeks a bidden blush to know, 

And little hearts to flutter at a Beau. 

" Oft, when the world imagine women stray, 
The Sylphs thro' mystic mazes guide their way; 
Thro' all the giddy circle they pursue, 
And old impertinence expel by new. 
What tender maid but must a victim fall 
To one man's treat, but for another's ball? 
When Florio speaks what virgin could withstand, 
If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand? 
With varying vanities, from ev'ry part, 
They shift the moving toyshop of their heart; 
Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive, 
Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive. 
This erring mortals levity may call; 
Oh blind to truth! the Sylphs contrive it all. 



150 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

"Of these am I, who thy protection claim, 
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name. 
Late, as I rang'd the crystal wilds of air, 
In the clear mirror of thy ruling star 
I saw, alas ! some dread event impend, 
Ere to the main this morning sun descend, 
But Heav'n reveals not what, or how, or where. 
Warn'd by the Sylph, O pious maid, beware ! 
This to disclose is all thy guardian can: 
Beware of all, but most beware of Man ! " 

He said ; when Shock, who thought she slept too long, 
Leap'd up, and M r ak'd his mistress with his tongue. 
'Twas then, Belinda ! if report say true, 
Thy eyes first open'd on a billet-doux; 
Wounds, charms, and ardors were no sooner read, 
But all the vision vanished from thy head. 

And now, unveil'd, the toilet stands display'd, 
Each silver vase in mystic order laid. 
First, rob'd in white, the nymph intent adores, 
With head uncover'd, the cosmetic pow'rs. 
A heav'nly image in the glass appears; 
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears. 
Th' inferior priestess, at her altar's side, 
Trembling begins the sacred rites of Pride. 
Unnumber'd treasures ope at once, and here 
The various off 'rings of the world appear; 
From each she nicely culls with curious toil, 
And decks the Goddess with the glittering spoil. 
This casket India's glowing gems unlocks, 
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box; 
The tortoise here and elephant unite, 
Transform'd to combs, the speckled and the white. 
Here files of pins extend their shining rows, 
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux. 
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms; 
The Fair each moment rises in her charms, 



ALEXANDER POPE 151 

Repairs the smiles, awakens ev'ry grace, 
And calls forth all the wonders of her face; 
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise, 
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes. 
The busy Sylphs surround their darling care, 
These set the head, and those divide the hair, 
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown; 
And Betty 's prais'd for labors not her own. 



Caxto II 

Not with more glories, in th' etherial plain, 
The sun first rises o'er the purpled main, 
Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beams 
Launeh'd on the bosom of the silver Thames. 
Fair nymphs, and well-drest youths around her shone, 
But ev'ry eye was fixed on her alone. 
On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. 
Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose, 
Quick as her eyes, and as unfix'd as those; 
Favors to none, to all she smiles extends; 
Oft she rejects, but never once offends. 
Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike 
And, like the sun, they shine on all alike. 
Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride, 
Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide; 
If to her share some female errors fall, 
Look on her face, and you'll forget 'em all. 
This nymph, to the destruction of mankind, 
Nourish'd two locks, which graceful hung behind 
In equal curls, and well conspir'd to deck 
With shining ringlets the smooth iv'ry neck. 
Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains, 
And mighty hearts are held in slender chains. 



152 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

With hairy springes we the birds betray, 
Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey, 
Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare, 
And beauty draws us with a single hair. 

Th' advent'rous baron the bright locks admir'd; 
He saw, he wish'd, and to the prize aspir'd. 
Resolv'd to win, he meditates the way, 
By force to ravish, or by fraud betray; 
For when success a lover's toil attends, 
Few ask if fraud or force attain'd his ends. 

For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implor'd 
Propitious Heav'n, and ev'ry Pow'r ador'd, 
But chiefly Love — to Love an altar built 
Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt. 
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves, 
And all the trophies of his former loves; 
With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre, 
And breathes three am'rous sighs to raise the fire. 
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes 
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize: 
The Pow'rs gave ear, and granted half his pray'r: 
The rest the winds dispers'd in empty air. 

But now secure the painted vessel glides, 
The sun-beams trembling on the floating tides, 
While melting music steals upon the sky, 
And soften'd sounds along the waters die. 
Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play, 
Belinda smil'd, and all the world was gay. 
All but the Sylph — with careful thoughts opprest, 
Th' impending woe sat heavy on his breast. 
He summons strait his denizens of air; 
The lucid squadrons round the sails repair: 
Soft o'er the shrouds aerial whispers breathe, 
That seem'd but zephyrs to the train beneath. 
Some to the sun their insect-wings unfold, 
Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold; 



ALEXANDER POPE 153 

Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight, 
Their fluid bodies half dissolv'd in light, 
Loose to the wind their airy garments flew, 
Thin glitt'ring textures of the filmy dew, 
Dipt in the richest tincture of the skies, 
Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes, 
"While ev'ry beam new transient colors flings, 
Colors that change whene'er they wave their wings. 
Amid the circle, on the gilded mast, 
Superior by the head, was Ariel plac'd; 
His purple pinions op'ning to the sun, 
He raised his azure wand, and thus begun: 

" Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear ! 
Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Demons, hear! 
Ye know the spheres and various tasks assign'd 
By laws eternal to th' aerial kind. 
Some in the fields of purest ether play, 
And bask and whiten in the blaze of day: 
Some guide the course of wand'ring orbs on high, 
Or roll the planets thro' the boundless sky: 
Some, less refin'd, beneath the moon's pale light 
Pursue the stars that shoot athwart the night, 
Or suck the mists in grosser air below, 
Or dip their pinions in the painted bow, 
Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main, 
Or o'er the glebe distill the kindly rain. 
Others on earth o'er human race preside, 
Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide: 
Of these the chief the care of nations own, 
And guard with arms divine the British Throne. 

" Our humbler province is to tend the Fair, 
Not a less pleasing, tho' less glorious care; 
To save the powder from too rude a gale, 
Nor let th' imprison'd essences exhale; 
To draw fresh colors from the vernal flow'rs; 
To steal from rainbows, ere they drop in show'rs, 



154) LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

A brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs, 
Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs: 
Nay, oft, in dreams invention we bestow, 
To change a flounce or add a furbelow. 

" This day black omens threat the brightest Fair 
That e'er deserv'd a watchful spirit's care; 
Some dire disaster, or by force, or slight; 
But what, or where, the Fates have wrapt in night. 
Whether the nymph shall break Diana's law, 
Or some frail China jar receive a flaw; 
Or stain her honor, or her new brocade, 
Forget her pray'rs, or miss a masquerade, 
Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball; 
Or whether Heav'n has doom'd that Shock must fall. 
Haste? then, ye Spirits! to your charge repair: 
The flutt'ring fan be Zephyretta's care; 
The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign; 
And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine; 
Do thou, Crispissa, tend her fav'rite Lock; 
Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock. 
To fifty chosen Sylphs, of special note, 
We trust th' important charge, the petticoat: 
Form a strong line about the silver bound, 
And guard the wide circumference around. 

" Whatever Spirit, careless of his charge, 
His post neglects, or leaves the Fair at large, 
Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o'ertake his sins: 
Be stopp'd in vials, or transfix'd with pins, 
Or plung'd in lakes of bitter washes lie, 
Or wedg'd whole ages in a bodkin's eye; 
Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain, 
While clogg'd he beats his silken wings in vain; 
Or alum styptics with contracting pow'r 
Shrink his thin essence like a rivell'd flower; 
Or, as Ixion fix'd, the wretch shall feel 
The giddy motion of the whirling mill, 



ALEXANDER POPE 155 

In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow, 
And tremble at the sea that froths below ! " 

He spoke; the Spirits from the sails descend. 
Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend; 
Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair; 
Some hang upon the pendants of her ear. 
With beating hearts the dire event they wait, 
Anxious, and trembling: for the birth of Eate. 



Canto III 

Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs, 
Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs, 
There stands a structure of majestic frame, 
Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name. 
Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom 
Of foreign tyrants, and of nymphs at home; 
Here thou, great Anna ! whom three realms obey, 
Dost sometimes counsel take — and sometimes tea. 

Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort, 
To taste awhile the pleasures of a court. 
In various talk th' instructive hours they past, 
Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last; 
One speaks the glory of the British Queen, 
And one describes a charming Indian screen; 
A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes; 
At ev'ry word a reputation dies. 
Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat, 
With singing, laughing, ogling, and all that. 

Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day, 
The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray; 
The hungry judges soon the sentence sign, 
And wretches hang that jury-men may dine; 
The merchant from th' Exchange returns in peace, 



156 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

Belinda now, whom thirst of fame invites, 

Burns to encounter two advent'rous knights, 

At Ombre singly to decide their doom, 

And swells her breast with conquests yet to come. 

Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join, 

Each band the number of the sacred nine. 

Soon as she spreads her hand, th' aerial guard 

Descend, and sit on each important card: 

First Ariel perch'd upon a Matadore, 

Then each according to the rank they bore; 

For Sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race, 

Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place. 

Behold four Kings in majesty rever'd, 
With hoary whiskers and a f orky beard ; 
And four fair Queens, whose hands sustain a flow'r, 
Th' expressive emblem of their softer pow'r; 
Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band, 
Caps on their heads, and halberds in their hand; 
And particolor'd troops, a shining train, 
Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain. 

The skilful nymph reviews her force with care; 
" Let Spades be trumps ! " she said ; and trumps they were. 

Now move to war her sable Matadores, 
In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors. 
Spadillio first, unconquerable lord! 
Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board. 
As many more Manillio forced to yeld, 
And march'd a victor from the verdant field. 
Him Basto follow'd, but his fate more hard 
Gain'd but one trump and one plebeian card. 
With his broad sabre next, a chief in years, 
The hoary Majesty of Spades appears, 
Puts forth one manly leg, to sight reveal'd; 
The rest his many-color'd robe conceal'd. 
The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage, 
Proves the just victim of his royal rage. 



ALEXANDER POPE 157 

Ev'n mighty Pam, that Kings and Queens o'erthrew, 
And mow'd down armies in the fights of Loo, 
Sad chance of war ! now destitute of aid, 
Falls undistinguish'd by the victor Spade. 

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield; 
Now to the baron Fate inclines the field. 
His warlike Amazon her host invades, 
Th' imperial consort of the crown of Spades. 
The Club's black tyrant first her victim dy'd, 
Spite of his haughty mien, and barb'rous pride: 
What boots the regal circle on his head, 
His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread, 
That long behind he trails his pompous robe, 
And of all monarchs only grasps the globe? 

The baron now his Diamonds pours apace; 
Th' embroider'd King who shows but half his face, 
And his refulgent Queen, with pow'rs combin'd, 
Of broken troops any easy conquest find. 
Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen, 
With throngs promiscuous strew the level green. 
Thus when dispers'd a routed army runs 
Of Asia's troops, and Afric's sable sons, 
With like confusion different nations fly, 
Of various habit, and of various dye; 
The pierc'd battalions disunited fall, 
In heaps on 'heaps; one fate o'erwhelms them all. 

The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts, 
And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts. 
At this the blood the virgin's cheek forsook, 
A livid paleness spreads o'er all her look; 
She sees, and trembles at th' approaching ill, 
Just in the jaws of ruin, and Codille. 
And now (as oft in some distemper'd state) 
On one nice trick depends the gen'ral fate; 
An Ace of Hearts steps forth; the King unseen 
Lurk'd in her hand, and mourn'd his captive Queen: 



158 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

He springs to vengeance with an eager pace, 
And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace. 
The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky; 
The walls, the woods, and long canals reply. 

Oh thoughtless mortals ! ever blind to -fate, 
Too soon dejected, and too soon elate, 
Sudden these honors shall be snatch'd away, 
And curs'd for ever this victorious day. 

For lo! the board with sups and spoons is crown'd, 
The berries crackle, and the mill turns round; 
On shining altars of Japan they raise 
The silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze: 
From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide, 
While China's earth receives the smoking tide. 
At once they gratify their scent and taste, 
And frequent cups prolong the rich repast. 
Straight hover round the Fair her airy band; 
Some, as she sipp'd, the fuming liquor fann'd, 
Some o'er her lap their careful plumes display'd, 
Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade. 
Coffee (which makes the politician wise, 
And see thro' all things with his half -shut eyes) 
Sent up in vapors to the baron's brain 
New stratagems, the radiant Lock to gain. 
Ah cease, rash youth ! desist ere 'tis too late, 
Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla's fate! 
Chang'd to a bird, and sent to flit in air, 
She dearly pays for Nisus' injur'd hair! 

But when to mischief mortals bend their will, 
How soon they find fit instruments of ill! 
Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting grace 
A two-edged weapon from her shining case: 
So ladies in romance assist their knight, 
Present the spear, and arm him for the fight. 
He takes the gift with rev'rence, and extends 
The little engine on his fihgers' ends; 



ALEXANDER POPE 159 

This just behind Belindas neck he spread, 

As o'er the fragrant steams she bends her head. 

Swift to the Look a thousand sprites repair; 

A thousand wings by turns blow back the hair; 

And thrice they twitch'd the diamond in her ear; 

Thrice she look'd back, and thrice the foe drew near. 

Just in that instant, anxious Ariel sought 

The close recesses of the virgin's thought; 

As on the nosegay in her breast reclin'd, 

He watch'd th' ideas rising in her mind, 

Sudden he view'd, in spite of all her art, 

An earthly lover lurking at her heart. 

Amaz'd, confus'd, he found his pow'r expir'd, 

Resign'd to fate, and with a sigh retir'd. 

The peer now spreads the glitt'ring forfex wide, 
T' inclose the Lock; now joins it, to divide. 
Ev'n then, before the fatal engine clos'd, 
A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos'd; 
Fate urg'd the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain 
(But airy substance soon unites again). 
The meeting- points the sacred hair dissever 
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever ! 

Then flash'd the living lightning from her eyes, 
And screams of horror rend th' affrighted skies. 
Not louder shrieks to pitying Heav'n are cast, 
When husbands, or when lapdogs breathe their last; 
Or when rich China vessels fall'n from high, 
In glittering dust and painted fragments lie ! 

" Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine," 
The victor cried ; " the glorious prize is mine ! 
While fish in streams, or birds delight in air, 
Or in a coach and six the British Fair, 
As long as Atalantis shall be read, 
Or the small pillow grace a lady's bed; 
While visits shall be paid on solemn days, 
When num'rous waxlights in bright order blaze; 



160 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

While nymphs take treats, or assignations give, 

So long my honor, name, and praise shall live ! 

What Time would spare, from Steel receives its date, 

And monuments, like men, submit to Fate ! 

Steel could the labor of the gods destroy, 

And strike to dust th' imperial tow'rs of Troy; 

Steel would the works of mortal pride confound 

And hew triumphal arches to the ground. 

What wonder then, fair Nymph ! thy hair should feel 

The conqu'ring force of unresisted steel? " 



Canto IV 

But anxious cares the pensive nymph oppress'd, 
And secret passions labor'd in her breast. 
Not youthful kings in battle seiz'd alive, 
Not scornful virgins who their charms survive, 
Not ardent lovers robb'd of all their bliss, 
Not ancient ladies when refus'd a kiss, 
Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die, • 
Not Cynthia when her manteau's pinn'd awry, 
E'er felt such rage, resentment, and despair, 
As thou, sad Virgin ! for thy ravish'd hair. 

For, that sad moment, when the Sylph withdrew, 
And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew, 
Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite, 
As ever sullied the fair face of light, 
Down to the central earth, his proper scene, 
Repair'd to search the gloomy cave of Spleen. 

Swift on his sooty pinions flits the Gnome, 
And in a vapor reach'd the dismal dome. 
No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows, 
The dreaded East is all the wind that blows. 
Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air, 
And screen'd in shades from day's detested glare, 



ALEXANDER POPE l6l 

She sighs forever on her pensive bed, 

Pain at her side, and Megrim at her head. 

Two handmaids wait the throne; alike in place, 

But diff'ring far in figure and in face. 

Here stood Ill-nature, like an ancient maid, 

Her wrinkled form in black and white array'd; 

With store of pray'rs for mornings, nights, and noons, 

Her hand is fill'dj her bosom with lampoons. 

There Affectation, with a sickly mien, 

Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen, 

Practis'd to lisp and hang the head aside, 

Faints into airs and languishes with pride; 

On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe, 

Wrapt in a gown for sickness and for show. 

The fair ones feel such maladies as these, 

When each new night-dress gives a new disease. 

A constant vapor o'er the palace flies, 
Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise, 
Dreadful as hermit's dreams in haunted shades, 
Or bright as visions of expiring maids: 
Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires, 
Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires; 
Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes, 
And crystal domes, and angels in machines. 

Unnumber'd throngs on every side are seen, 
Of bodies chang'd to various forms by Spleen. 
Here living Tea-pots stand, one arm held out, 
One bent; the handle this, and that the spout; 
A Pipkin there, like Homer's tripod, walks; 
Here sighs a Jar, and there a Goose-pie talks; 
Men prove with child, as pow'rful fancy works, 
And maids turn'd bottles call aloud for corks. 

Safe pass'd the Gnome thro' this fantastic band, 
A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand. 
Then thus address'd the Pow'r — " Hail, wayward Queen ! 
Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen; 



162 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

Parent of Vapors and of female wit, 

Who give th' hysteric or poetic fit; 

On various tempers act by various ways, 

Make some take physic, others scribble plays ; 

Who cause the proud their visits to delay, 

And send the godly in a pet to pray ! 

A nymph there is, that all thy pow'r disdains, 

And thousands more in equal mirth maintains. 

But, oh ! if e'er thy Gnome could spoil a grace, 

Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face, 

Like citron-waters matrons' cheeks inflame, 

Or change complexions at a losing game; 

Or caus'd suspicion when no soul was rude, 

Or discompos'd the head-dress of a prude, 

Or e'er to costive lapdog gave disease, 

Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease, 

Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin; 

That single act gives half the world the spleen." 

The Goddess, with a discontented air, 
Seems to reject him, tho' she grants his pray'r. 
A wond'rous Bag with both her hands she binds, 
Like that where once Ulysses held the winds; 
There she collects the force of female lungs, 
Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues. 
A Vial next she fills with fainting fears, 
Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears. 
The Gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away, 
Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day. 

Sunk in Thalestris' arms the nymph he found, 
Her eyes dejected, and her hair unbound. 
Full o'er their heads the swelling Bag he rent, 
And all the Furies issued at the vent. 
Belinda burns with more than mortal ire, 
And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire. 
" O wretched maid ! " she spread her hands, and cry'd 
(While Hampton's echoes, "Wretched maid!" replied). 



ALEXANDER POPE 163 

u Was it for this you took such constant care 
The bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare? 
For this your locks in paper durance bound ? 
For this with tort'ring irons wreath'd around? 
For this with fillets strain' d your tender head, 
And bravely bore the double loads of lead? 
Gods ! shall the ravisher display your hair, 
While the fops envy, and the ladies stare? 
Honor forbid ! at whose unrivall'd shrine 
Ease, Pleasure, Virtue, all, our sex resign. 
Methinks already I your tears survey, 
Already hear the horrid things they say, 
Already see you a degraded toast, 
And all your honor in a whisper lost ! 
How shall I then your helpless fame defend? 
'Twill then be infamy to seem your friend! 
And shall this prize, th' inestimable prize, 
Expos'd through crystal to the gazing eyes, 
And heighten'd by the diamond's circling rays, 
On that rapacious hand forever blaze? 
Sooner shall grass in Hyde-Park Circus grow, 
And Wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow; 
Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall, 
Men, monkeys, lapdogs, parrots, perish all ! " 

She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs, 
And bids the beau demand the precious hairs 
(Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, 
And the nice conduct of a clouded cane) : 
With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face, 
He first the snuff-box open'd, then the case, 
And thus broke out — " My lord, why, what the devil ! 
Zounds ! damn the Lock ! 'fore Gad, you must be civil ! 
Plague on 't! 'tis past a jest — nay prithee, pox! 
Give her the hair " — he spoke, and rapp'd his box. 

" It grieves me much," reply'd the peer again, 
" Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain ; 



164 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

But by this Lock, this sacred Lock I swear 
(Which never more shall join its parted hair; 
Which never more its honors shall renew, 
Clipp'd from the lovely head where late it grew), 
That, while my nostrils draw the vital air, 
This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear." 
He spoke; and speaking, in proud triumph spread 
The long-contended honors of her head. 

But Umbriel, hateful Gnome! forbears not so; 
He breaks the Vial whence the sorrows flow. 
Then see ! the nymph in beauteous grief appears, 
Her eyes half languishing, half drown'd in tears; 
On her heav'd bosom hung her drooping head, 
Which, with a sigh, she rais'd; and thus she said: 

" For ever curs'd be this detested day, 
Which snatch'd my best, my fav'rite curl away ! 
Happy ! ah, ten times happy had I been, 
If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! 
Yet am not I the first mistaken maid, 
By love of courts to num'rous ills betray'd. 
O had I rather unadmir'd remain'd 
In some lone isle, or distant northern land, 
Where the gilt chariot never marks the way, 
Where none learn Ombre, none e'er taste Bohea ! 
There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye, 
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. 
What mov'd my mind with youthful lords to roam? 
O had I stay'd, and said my pray'rs at home ! 
'Twas this, the morning omens seem'd to tell: 
Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell; 
The tottering china shook without a wind; 
Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind ! 
A Sylph too warn'd me of the threats of fate, 
In mystic visions, now believ'd too late! 
See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs! 
My hands shall rend what ev'n thy rapine spares. 



ALEXANDER POPE 165 

These, in two sable ringlets taught to break, 
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck; 
The sister lock now sits uncouth, alone, 
And in its fellow's fate foresees its own; 
Uncurl'd it hangs, the fatal shears demands, 
And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands. 
Oh hadst thou, cruel ! been content to seize 
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these ! " 



Canto V 

She said: the pitying audience melt in tears; 
But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the baron's ears. 
In vain Thalestris with reproach assails; 
For who can move when fair Belinda fails? 
Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, 
While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain. 
Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan; 
Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began: 

" Say, why are beauties prais'd and honor'd most, 
The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? 
Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford, 
Why angels call'd, and angel-like ador'd? 
Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd beaux? 
Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows? 
How vain are all these glories, all our pains, 
Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains, 
That men may say, when we the front-box grace, 
' Behold the first in virtue as in face ! ' 
Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, 
Charm'd the small-pox, or chas'd old age away; 
Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, 
Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? 
To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint; 
Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint. 



166 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

But since, alas! frail beauty must decay; 

Curl'd or uncuiTd, since locks will turn to gray; 

Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, 

And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; 

What then remains but well our pow'r to use, 

And keep good-humor still whate'er we lose? 

And trust me, dear ! good-humor can prevail, 

When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail. 

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; 

Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul." 

So spoke the dame, but no applause ensu'd; 
Belinda frowned, Thalestris call'd her prude. 
" To arms, to arms ! " the fierce virago cries, 
And swift as lightning to the combat flies. 
All side in parties, and begin th' attack; 
Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; 
Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise, 
And bass, and treble voices strike the skies. 
No common weapons in the hands are found; 
Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound. 

So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, 
And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage; 
'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; 
And all Olympus rings with loud alarms; 
Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around; 
Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound; 
Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way, 
And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! 

Triumphant Umbriel, on a sconce's height, 
Clapp'd his glad wings, and sate to view the fight. 
Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey 
The growing combat, or assist the fray. 
While thro' the press enraged Thalestris flies, 
And scatters death around from both her eyes, 
A beau and witling perish'd in the throng; 
One died in metaphor, and one in song. 



ALEXANDER POPE 167 

" O cruel nymph ! a living death I bear," 
Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair. 
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upward cast; 
" Those eyes are made so killing " — was his last. 
Thus on Maeander's flow'ry margin lies 
Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies. 

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, 
Chloc stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; 
She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain, 
But, at her smile, the beau reviv'd again. 

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, 
Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; 
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; 
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside. 

See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies, 
With more than usual lightning in her eyes; 
Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try, 
Who sought no more than on his foe to die. 
But this bold lord, with manly strength endu'd, 
She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd: 
Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, 
A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; 
The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just, 
The pungent grains of titillating dust. 
Sudden with starting tears each eye o'erflows, 
And the high dome re-echoes to his nose. 

" Now meet thy fate," incens'd Belinda cry'd, 
And drew a deadly bodkin from her side. 
(The same his ancient personage to deck. 
Her great-great-grandsire wore about his neck, 
In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, 
Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown; 
Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, 
The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; 
Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, 
Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.) 



168 LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

" Boast not my fall," he cried, " insulting foe ! 
Thou by some other shalt be laid as low. 
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind: 
All that I dread is leaving you behind ! 
Rather than so, ah let me still survive, 
And burn in Cupid's flames — but burn alive." 

" Restore the Lock ! " she cries ; and all around 
" Restore the Lock ! " the vaulted roofs rebound. 
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain 
Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain. 
But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, 
And chiefs contend till all the prize is lost ! 
The Lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain, 
In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain. 
With such a prize no mortal must be blest, 
So heav'n decrees! with heav'n who can contest? 

Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, 
Since all things lost on earth are treasur'd there. 
There heroes' wits are kept in pond'rous vases, 
And beaux in snuff-boxes and tweezer-cases. 
There broken vows and death-bed alms are found, 
And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound, 
The courtier's promises, and sick man's pray'rs, 
The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, 
Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, 
Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry. 

But trust the Muse — she saw it upward rise, 
Tho' mark'd by none but quick poetic eyes; 
(So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, 
To Proculus alone confess'd in view) 
A sudden star, it shot thro' liquid air, 
And drew behind a radiant trail of hair. 
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, 
The heav'ns bespangling with dishevell'd light. 
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, 
And pleas'd pursue its progress thro' the skies. 



ALEXANDER POPE 169 

This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey, 
And hail with music its propitious ray. 
This the blest lover shall for Venus take, 
And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake; 
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, 
When next he looks thro' Galileo's eyes; 
And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom 
The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome. 

Then cease, bright Nymph ! to mourn thy ravish'd hair 
Which adds new glory to the shining sphere ! 
Not all the tresses that fair head can boast, 
Shall draw such envy as the Lock you lost: 
For after all the murders of your eye, 
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die: 
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, 
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, 
This Lock the Muse shall consecrate to fame, 
And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name. 

A. Pope. 



LYRIC POEMS 



POEMS OF JOY IN LIFE 

HUNTING SONG 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

On the mountain dawns the day; 

All the jolly chase is here 

"With hawk and horse and hunting-spear; 

Hounds are in their couples yelling, 

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 

Merrily merrily mingle they, 

' Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

The mist has left the mountain gray, 

Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming; 

And foresters have busy been 

To track the buck in thicket green; 

Now we come to chant our lay 

' Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

To the greenwood haste away; 

We can show you where he lies, 

Fleet of foot and talL of size; 

We can show the marks he made 

When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; 

You shall see him brought to bay; 

' Waken, lords and ladies gay.' 

Louder, louder chant the lay 
Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 
173 



174- POEMS OF JOY IN LIFE 

Tell them youth and mirth and glee 
Run a course as well as we; 
Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk, 
Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk; 
Think of this, and rise with day, 
Gentle lords and ladies gay! 

Sir W. Scott. 

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast 
And fills the white and rustling sail 

And bends the gallant mast; 
And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 

While like the eagle free 
Away the good ship flies, and leaves 

Old England on the lee. 

O for a soft and gentle wind ! 

I heard a fair one cry; 
But give to me the snoring breeze 

And white waves heaving high; 
And white waves heaving high, my lads, 

The good ship tight and free — 
The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There's tempest in yon horned moon 

And lightning in yon cloud; » 

But hark the music, mariners ! 

The wind is piping loud; 
The wind is piping loud, my boys, 

The lightning flashes free — 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 

Our heritage the sea. 

A. Cunningham. 



HENRY CHARLES BEECHING 175 

BICYCLING SONG 

A Boy's Song 

With lifted feet, hands still, 
I am poised, and down the hill 
Dart, with heedful mind: 
The air goes by in a wind. 

Swifter and yet more swift 
Till the heart, with a mighty lift, 
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry — 
' O bird, see ; see, bird, I fly. 

' Is this, is this your joy, 
O bird, then I, though a boy, 
For a golden moment share 
Your feathery life in air ! ' 

Say, heart, is there aught like this 
In a world that is full of bliss? 
'Tis more than skating, bound 
Steel-shod to the level ground. 

Speed slackens now, I float 
Awhile in my airy boat; 
Till when the wheels scarce crawl, 
My feet to the pedals fall. 

Alas that the longest hill 
Must end in a vale; but still 
Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er, 
Shall find wings waiting there ! 

H. C. Beeching. 



176 POEMS OF JOY IN LIFE 

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And turn his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird's throat — 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun 
And loves to live i' the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats 
And pleased with what he gets — 
Come hither, come hither, come hither ! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy 
But winter and rough weather. 

W. Shakspere. 



COUNSEL TO GIRLS 

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, 

Old Time is still a-flying: 
And this same flower that smiles to-day, 

To-morrow will be dying. 

The glorious Lamp of Heaven, the Sun, 

The higher he's a-getting 
The sooner will his race be run, 

And nearer he's to setting. 



WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 177 

That age is best which is the first, 

When youth and blood are warmer; 
But being spent, the worse, and worst 

Times, still succeed the former. 

Then be not coy, but use your time; 

And while ye may, go marry: 
For having lost but once your prime, 

You may for ever tarry. 

B. Herrick. 



IT WAS A LOVER AND HIS LASS 

It was a lover and his lass 

With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino ! 
That o"er the green corn-field did pass 
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, 
When birds do sing hey ding a ding: 

Sweet lovers love the Spring. 

Between the acres of the rye 
These pretty country folks would lie: 
This carol they began that hour, 
How that life was but a flower: 

And therefore take the present time 

With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino! 
For love is crowned with the prime 
In spring time, the only pretty ring time, 
When birds do sing hey ding a ding: 
Sweet lovers love the Spring. 

W. Shakspere. 



178 POEMS OP JOY IN LIFE 

UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY 

(As distinguished by an Italian person of quality) 

Had I but plenty of money, money enough and to spare, 
The house for me, no doubt, were a house in the city- 
square. 
Ah, such a life, such a life, as one leads at the window 
there ! 

Something to see, by Bacchus, something to hear, at least ! 
There, the whole day long, one's life is a perfect feast; 
While up at a villa one lives, I maintain it, no more than a 
beast. 

Well now, look at our villa! stuck like the horn of a bull 
Just on a mountain's edge as bare as the creature's skull, 
Save a mere shag of a bush with hardly a leaf to pull! 
— I scratch my own, sometimes, to see if the hair's turned 
wool. 

But the city, oh the city — the square with the houses ! Why? 

They are stone-faced, white as a curd, there's something to 
take the eye! 

Houses in four straight lines, not a single front awry! 

You watch who crosses and gossips, who saunters, who 
hurries by: 

Green blinds, as a matter of course, to draw when the sun 
gets high; 

And the shops with fanciful signs which are painted prop- 
erly. 

What of a villa? Though winter be over in March by 

rights, 
'Tis May perhaps ere the snow shall have withered well off 

the heights: 



ROBERT BROWNING 179 

You've the brown ploughed land before, where the oxen 

steam and wheeze, 
And the hills over-smoked behind by the faint grey olive 

trees. 



Is it better in May, I ask you? You've summer all at 

once; 
In a day he leaps complete with a few strong April 

suns ! 
'Mid the sharp short emerald wheat, scarce risen three 

fingers well, 
The wild tulip, at end of its tube, blows out its great red 

bell, 
Like a thin clear bubble of blood, for the children to pick 

and sell. 



Is it ever hot in the square? There's a fountain to spout 
and splash ! 

In the shade it sings and springs; in the shine such foam- 
bows flash 

On the horses with curling fish-tails, that prance and 
paddle and pash 

Round the lady atop in the conch — fifty gazers do not 
abash, 

Though all that she wears is some weeds round her waist in 
a sort of sash ! 



All the year round at the villa, nothing's to see though you 
linger, 

Except yon cypress that points like Death's lean lifted fore- 
finger. 

Some think fireflies pretty, when they mix in the corn and 
mingle, 

Or thrid the stinking hemp till the stalks of it seem a-tingle. 



180 POEMS OF JOY IN LIFE 

Late August or early September, the stunning cicala is 
shrill, 

And the bees keep up their tiresome whine round the res- 
inous firs on the hill. 

Enough of the seasons, — I spare you the months of the 
fever and chill. 



Ere opening your eyes in the city, the blessed church-bells 

begin : 
No sooner the bells leave off, than the diligence rattles in; 
You get the pick of the news, and it costs you never a pin. 
By and by there's the travelling doctor gives pills, lets 

blood, draws teeth; 
Or the Pulcinello-trumpet breaks up the market beneath. 
At the post-office such a scene-picture — the new play piping 

hot! 
And a notice how, only this morning, three liberal thieves 

were shot. 
Above it, behold the archbishop's most fatherly of rebukes, 
And beneath, with his crown and his lion, some little new 

law of the Duke's! 
Or a sonnet with flowery marge, to the Reverend Don So- 
and-so 
Who is Dante, Boccaccio, Petrarca, St. Jerome, and Cicero, 
"And moreover," (the sonnet goes rhyming), "the skirts 

of St. Paul has reached, 
Having preached us those six Lent-lectures more unctuous 

than ever he preached." 
Noon strikes,— here sweep the procession ! our lady borne 

smiling and smart 
With a pink gauze gown all spangles, and seven swords 

stuck in her heart ! 
Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife; 
No keeping one's haunches still: it's the greatest pleasure in 

life. 



ROBERT BROWNING 181 

But bless you, it's dear — it's dear! fowls, wine, at double 

the rate. 
They have clapped a new tax upon salt, and what oil pays 

passing the gate 
It's a horror to think of. And so, the villa for me, not the 

city! 
Beggars can scarcely be choosers — but still — ah, the pity, 

the pity ! 
Look two and two go the priests, then the monks with 

cowls and sandals, 
And the penitents dressed in white skirts, a-holding the 

yellow candles. 
One, he carries a flag up straight, and another a cross with 

handles, 
And the Duke's guard brings up the rear, for the better 

prevention of scandals. 
Bang, whang, whang, goes the drum, tootle-te-tootle the fife. 
Oh, a day in the city-square, there is no such pleasure in life! 

B. Browning. 



POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 

WHO IS SYLVIA? 

Who is Sylvia? What is she, 

That ail our swains commend her? 

Holy, fair, and wise is she; 
The heaven such grace doth lend her, 

That she might admired be. 

Is she kind as she is fair? 

For beauty lives with kindness. 
Love doth to her eyes repair 

To help him of his blindness, 
And, being helped, inhabits there. 

Then to Sylvia let us sing 

That Sylvia is excelling; 
She excels each mortal thing 

Upon the dull earth dwelling. 
To her let us garlands bring. 

W. Shakspere. 

THE INDIAN SERENADE 

I arise from dreams of Thee 
In the first sweet sleep of night, 
When the winds are breathing low 
And the stars are shining bright: 
I arise from dreams of thee, 
And a spirit in my feet 
182 



LORD BYRON 183 

Hath led me — who knows how? 
To thy chamber-window, Sweet ! 

The wandering airs they faint 

On the dark, the silent stream — 

The champak odours fail 

Like sweet thoughts in a dream; 

The nightingale's complaint 

It dies upon her heart, 

As I must die on thine 

beloved as thou art ! 

Oh lift me from the grass ! 

1 die, I faint, I fail ! 

Let thy love in kisses rain 
On my lips and eyelids pale. 
My cheek is cold and white, alas ! 
My heart beats loud and fast; 
Oh ! press it close to thine again 
Where it will break at last. 

P. B. Shelley. 



SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY, LIKE THE XIGHT 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies, 
And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 
Thus mellow'd to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impair'd the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress 



181 POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 

Or softly lightens o'er her face, 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek and o'er that brow 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that glow 

But tell of days in goodness spent, — 

A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

Lord Byron. 



TO CELIA 

Drink to me only with thine eyes, 

And I will pledge with mine; 
Or leave a kiss but in the cup 

And I'll not look for wine. 
The thirst that from the soul doth rise 

Doth ask a drink divine; 
But might I of Jove's nectar sup, 

I would not change for thine. 

I sent thee late a rosy wreath, 

Not so much honouring thee 
As giving it a hope that there 

It could not wither'd be; 
But thou thereon didst only breathe 

And sent'st it back to me; 
Since when it grows, and smells, I s^ 

Not of itself but thee ! 

B. Jonson. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 185 



MY LUVE'S LIKE A BED, BED ROSE 

my Luve's like a red, red rose 
That's newly sprung in June: 

O my Luve's like the melodie 
That's sweetly play'd in tune. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in luve am I: 
And I will luve thee still, my dear, 

Till a' the seas gang dry: 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun; 

1 will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' life shall run. 

And fare thee weel, my only Luve! 

And fare thee weel awhile; 
And I will come again, my Luve, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

R. Burns. 

A SERENADE 

Ah ! Cotmty Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea, 
The orange-flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, 

Sits hush'd his partner nigh; 
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy? 

The village maid steals through the shade 

Her shepherd's suit to hear; 
To Beauty shy, by lattice high, 

Sings high-born Cavalier. 



186 POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 

The star of Love, all stars above, 
Now reigns o'er earth and sky, 

And high and low the influence know — 
But where is County Guy? 

Sir W. Scott. 

HARK, HARK! THE LARK 

Hark, Hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus gins arise 
His steeds to water at those springs 

On chaliced flowers that lies; 
And winking Mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With everything that pretty is, 

My lady sweet, arise, 
Arise, arise. 

W. Shakspere. 

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind 

That from the nunnery 
Of thy chaste breast and quiet* mind, 

To war and arms I fly. 

True, a new mistre_ss now I chase, 

The first foe in the field; 
And with a stronger faith embrace 

A sword, a horse, a shield. 

Yet this inconstancy is such 

As you too shall adore; 
I could not love thee, Dear, so much, 

Loved I not Honour more. 

Colonel Lovelace. 



ROBERT BURNS 187 

YE BANKS AND BRAES O' BONNIE DO ON 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye blume sae fair ! 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae fu' o' care! 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings upon the bough; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause Luve was true. 

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird 

That sings beside thy mate; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon 

To see the woodbine twine, 
And ilka bird sang o' its love; 

And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae aff its thorny tree; 
And my fause luver staw the rose, 

But left the thorn wi' me. 

jR. Bums. 



JEAN 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 
I dearly like the West, 

For there the bonnie lassie lives, 
The lassie I lo'e best: 



188 POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 

There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And mony a hill between; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair: 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air. 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings 

But minds me o' my Jean. 

B. Burns. 



WHEN WE TWO PARTED 

When we two parted 

In silence and tears, 

Half broken-hearted, 

To sever for years, 

Pale grew thy cheek and cold, 

Colder thy kiss; 

Truly that hour foretold 

Sorrow to this ! 

The dew of the morning 
Sunk chill on my brow; 
It felt like the warning 
Of what I feel now. 
Thy vows are all broken, 
And light is thy fame: 
I hear thy name spoken 
And share in its shame. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 189 

They name thee before me, 
A knell to mine ear; 
A shudder comes o'er me — 
Why wert thou so dear? 
They know not I knew thee 
Who knew thee too well: 
Long, long shall I rue thee, 
Too deeply to tell. 

In secret we met: 

In silence I grieve 

That thy heart could forget, 

Thy spirit deceive. 

If I should meet thee 

After long years, 

How should I greet thee? — 

With silence and tears. 

Lord Byron. 



SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 

She was a Phantom of delight 

When first she gleam'd upon my sight; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 

To be a moment's ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of twilight fair; 

Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair; 

But all things else about her drawn 

From May-time and the cheerful dawn; 

A dancing shape, an image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 
A Spirit, yet a Woman too! 



190 POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 

Her household motions light and free, 

And steps of virgin-liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 

Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A creature not too bright or good 

For human nature's daily food, 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 

Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 
A being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A traveller between life and death: 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; 
A perfect Woman, nobly plann'd 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright 
With something of an angel-light. 

W. Wordsworth. 



ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED 

One word is too often profaned 

For me to profane it, 
One feeling too falsely disdain'd 

For thee to disdain it. 
One hope is too like despair 

For prudence to smother, 
And pity from thee more dear 

Than that from another. 

I can give not what men call love; 
But wilt thou accept not 



THOMAS MOORE 191 

The worship the heart lifts above 

And the Heavens reject not: 
The desire of the moth for the star, 

Of the night for the morrow, 
The devotion to something afar 

From the sphere of our sorrow? 

P. B. Shelley. 



THE YOUNG MAY MOON 

The young May moon is beaming, love, 
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, 

How sweet to rove 

Through Morna's grove, 
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love ! 
Then awake! — the heavens look bright, my dear, 
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear, 

And the best of all ways 

To lengthen our days, 
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! 

Now all the world is sleeping, love, 

But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love, 

And I, whose star, 

More glorious far, 
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love. 
Then awake ! — till rise of sun, my dear, 
The Sage's glass we'll shun, my dear, 

Or, in watching the flight 

Of bodies of light, 
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear. 

T. Moore. 



192 POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 

THERE BE NONE OF BE A UTY'S DA UGHTEBS 

There be none of Beauty's daughters 

With a magic like Thee; 
And like music on the waters 

Is thy sweet voice to me: 
When, as if its sound were causing 
The charmed ocean's pausing, 
The waves lie still and gleaming, 
And the lulled winds seem dreaming: 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep, 

Whose breast is gently heaving 
As an infant's asleep: 

So the spirit bows before thee 

To listen and adore thee; 

With a full but soft emotion, 

Like the swell of Summer's ocean. 

Lord Byron. 

THE ROVER 

A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine. 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green — 

No more of me you knew 
My Love! 
No more of me you knew. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 193 

' This morn is merry June, I trow, 

The rose is budding fain; 
But she shall bloom in winter snow 

Ere we two meet again.' 
He turn'd his charger as he spake 

Upon the river shore, 
He gave the bridle-reins a shake, 

Said ' Adieu for evermore 
My Love ! 
And adieu for evermore.' 

Sir W. Scott. 



LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY 

The fountains mingle with the river 

And the rivers with the ocean, 

The winds of heaven mix forever 

With a sweet emotion; 

Nothing in the world is single, 

All things by a law divine 

In one another's being mingle — 

Why not I with thine? 

See the mountains kiss high heaven, 
And the waves clasp one another ; 
No sister-flower would be forgiven 
If it disdain'd its brother: 
And the sunlight clasps the earth, 
And the moonbeams kiss the sea — 
What are all these kissings worth, 
If thou kiss not me? 

P. B. Shelley. 



194 POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 

/ TRAVELED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN 

I travelled among unknown men 

In lands beyond the sea; 
Nor, England ! did I know till then 

What love I bore to thee. 

'Tis past, that melancholy dream ! 

Nor will I quit thy shore 
A second time; for still I seem 

To love thee more and more. 

Among thy mountains did I feel 

The joy of my desire; 
And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel 

Beside an English fire. 

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd 
The bowers where Lucy play'd; 

And thine too is the last green field 
That Lucy's eyes survey'd. 

W. Wordsworth. 

ECHO 

How sweet the answer Echo makes 

To music at night 
When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes, 
And far away o'er lawns and lakes 

Goes answering light ! 

Yet Love hath echoes truer far 

And far more sweet 
Than e'er, beneath the moonlight's star, 
Of horn or lute or soft guitar 

The songs repeat. 



LORD BYRON 195 

'Tis when the sigh, — in youth sincere 

And only then, 
The sigh that's breathed for one to hear 
Is by that one, that only Dear 

Breathed back again. 

T. Moore. 



JOHN ANDERSON 

John Anderson my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent 
Your locks were like the raven, 
Your bonnie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snow; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 
We clamb the hill thegither, 
And moriy a canty day, John, 
We've had wi ane anither: 
Now we maun totter down, John, 
But hand in hand we'll go, 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 
John Anderson my jo. 

R. Burns. 



ALL FOR LOVE 

O talk not to me of a name great in story; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty. 



196 POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 

What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled: 
Then away with all such from the head that is hoary — 
What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? 

Oh fame! — if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, 
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover 
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her. 

There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee; 
Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; 
When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story, 
I knew it was love, and I felt it was glory. 

Lord Byron. 



I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN 

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden; 
Thou needest not fear mine; 
My spirit is too deeply laden 
Ever to burthen thine. 

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion ; 
Thou needest not fear mine; 
Innocent is the heart's devotion 
With which I worship thine. 

P. B. Shelley. 



POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

REQUIESCAT 

iStrew on her roses, roses, 

And never a spray of yew ! 
In quiet she reposes; 

Ah! would that I did too. 

Her mirth the world required; 

She bathed it in smiles of glee. 
But her heart was tired, tired, 

And now they let her be. 

Her life was turning, turning, 

In mazes of heat and sound; 
But for peace her soul was yearning, 

And now peace laps her ound. 

Her cabined, ample spirit. 

It fluttered and failed for breath; 
To-night it doth inherit 

The vasty hall of death. 

M. Arnold. 



SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove; 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 

And very few to love. 

197 



198 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half-hidden from the eye! 
— Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be; 
But she is in her grave, and, oh, 

The difference to me! 

W. Wordsworth. 



THE EDUCATION OF NATURE 

• 

Three years she grew in sun and shower; 

Then Nature said, ' A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown: 

This Child I to myself will take; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 

' Myself will to my darling be 

Both law and impulse: and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power 

To kindle or restrain. 

' She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs; 
And her's shall be the breathing balm, 
And her's the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 199 

' The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her; for her the willow bend; 
Nor shall she fail to see 
Ev'n in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
By silent sympathy. 

' The stars of midmght shall be dear 

To her; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 

Where rivulets dance their wayward round 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

' And vital feelings of delight 

Shall rear her form to stately height, 

Her virgin bosom swell; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 

While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell.' 

Thus Nature spake — The work was done — 

How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 

This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 

The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 

W. Wordsworth. 



SLUMBER DID 31 Y SPIRIT SEAL 

A slumber did my spirit seal; 

I had no human fears: 
She seem'd a thing that could not feel 

The touch of earthly years, 



200 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

No motion has she now, no force; 

She neither hears nor sees; 
Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course 

With rocks, and stones, and trees. 

W. Wordsworth. 



ON SOU THE TS DEATH 

Friends,, hear the words my wandering thoughts would say 
And cast them into shape some other day; 
Southey, my friend of forty years, is gone, 
And shattered by the fall, I stand alone. 

W. 8. Landor. 



HIGHLAND MARY 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. ' 

How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours on angel wings 

Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
For dear to me as light and life 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 



THOMAS HOOD 201 

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace 

Our parting was fu' tender ; 
And pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder; 
But, Oh ! fell Death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early ! 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly! 
And closed for aye the sparkling glance 

That dwelt on me sae kindly; 
And mouldering now in silent dust 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. « 

R. Burns. 

THE DEATH BED 

We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, 

Her breathing soft and low, 
As in her breast the wave of life 

Kept heaving to and fro. 

So silently we seem'd to speak, 

So slowly moved about, 
As we had lent her half our powers 

To eke her living out. 

Our very hopes belied our fears, 

Our fears our hopes belied — 
We thought her dying when she slept, 

And sleeping when she died. 



202 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

For when the morn came dim and sad 

And chill with early showers, 
Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 

Another morn than ours. 

T. Hood. 

ELEGY 

Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom! 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves, the earliest of the year, 
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, 
And feed deep thought with many a dream, 
And lingering pause and lightly tread; 
Fond wretch ! as if her step disturb'd the dead ! 

Away ! we know that tears are vain, 
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: 
Will this unteach us to complain? 
Or make one mourner weep the less? 
And thou, who tell'st me to forget, 
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet. 

Lord Byron. 

IN ME MORI AM 

A child's a plaything for an hour; 

Its pretty tricks we try 
For that or for a longer space, — 

Then tire, and lay it by. 



THOMAS GRAY 203 

But I knew one that to itself 

All seasons could control; 
That would have mock'd the sense of pain 

Out of a grieved soul. 

Thou straggler into loving arms, 

Young climber up of knees, 
When I forgot thy thousand ways 

Then life and all shall cease ! 

M. Lamb. 



ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, 
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight, 
And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds: 

Save that from yonder ivy -mantled tower 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade 
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 



204 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care: 
No children run to lisp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; 
How j ocund did they drive their team afield ! 
How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke I 

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; 
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, 
Awaits alike th' inevitable hour:— 
The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault 
If memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? 
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust, 
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 



THOMAS GRAY 205 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; 
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd, 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre: 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; 
Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial current of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: 
Full many a, flower is born to blush unseen, 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood. 

Th' applause of listening senates to command, 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes 

Their lot forbad: nor circumscribed alone 
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; 
Forbad to wade thro' slaughter to a throne, 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind; 

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 



206 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife 
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; 
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenour of their way. 

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect 

Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unletter'd Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply: 
And many a holy text around she strews, 
That teach the rustic moralist to die. 

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, 
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
Nor cast one longing lingering look behind? 

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 
E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate; 
If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, — 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
' Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
To meet the sun upon the upland lawn; 



THOMAS GRAY 207 

' There at the foot of yonder nodding beech 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high, 
His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch, 
And pore upon the brook that babbles by. 

' Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; 
Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn, 
Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love. 

' One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill, 
Along the heath, and near his favourite tree; 
Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he; 

' The next with dirges due in sad array 
Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne, — 
Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.' 

THE EPITAPH 

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth 
A youth, to fortune and to fame unknown; 
Fair science frown'd not on his humble birth 
And melancholy mark'd him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere; 

Heaven did a recompense as largely send: 

He gave to misery (all he had) a tear, 

He gain'd from Heaven ('twas all he wish'd) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, 
(There they alike in trembling hope repose,) 
The bosom of his Father and his God. 

T. Gray. 



208 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

HESTER 

When maidens such as Hester die 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try 

With vain endeavour. 
A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed 

And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 

A rising step, did indicate 

Of pride and joy no common rate 

That flush'd her spirit: 
I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call: if 'twas not pride, 
It was a joy to that allied 

She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool ; 
But she was train'd in Nature's school, 

Nature had blest her. 
A waking eye, a prying mind, 
A heart that stirs, is hard to bind; 
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind, 

Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbour ! gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore. 
Shall we not meet, as heretofore 
Some summer morning — 



LORD BYRON 209 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 
A bliss that would not go away, 
A sweet fore-warning? 

0. Lamb. 



ELEGY ON THYRZA 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 

As aught of mortal birth; 
And form so soft and charms so rare 

Too soon return'd to Earth! 
Though Earth received them in her bed, 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 

In carelessness or mirth, 
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look. 

I will not ask where thou liest low 

Nor gaze upon the spot; 
There flowers or weeds at will may grow 

So I behold them not: 
It is enough for me to prove 
That what I loved, and long must love, 

Like common earth can rot; 
To me there needs no stone to tell 
'Tis Nothing that I loved so well. 

Yet did I love thee to the last, 

As fervently as thou 
Who didst not change through all the past 

And canst not alter now. 
The love where Death has set his seal- 



210 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

Nor age can chill, nor rival steal, 

Nor falsehood disavow: 
And, what were worse, thou canst not see 
Or wrong, or change, or fault in me. 

The better days of life were ours; 

The worst can be but mine: 
The sun that cheers, the storm that lours, 

Shall never more be thine. 
The silence of that dreamless sleep 
I envy now too much to weep; 

Nor need I to repine 
That all those charms have pass'd away 
I might have watch'd through long decay. 

The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd 

Must fall the earliest prey; 
Though by no hand untimely snatch'd, 

The leaves must drop away. 
And yet it were a greater grief 
To watch it withering, leaf by leaf, 

Than see it pluck'd today ; 
Since earthly eye but ill can bear 
To trace the change to foul from fair. 

I know not if I could have borne 

To see thy beauties fade; 
The night that follow'd such a morn 

Had worn a deeper shade: 
Thy day without a cloud hath past, 
And thou wert lovely to the last, 

Extinguish'd, not decay'd; 
As stars that shoot along the sky 
Shine brightest as they fall from high. 



ROBERT BROWNING 211 

As once I wept, if I could weep, 

My tears might well be shed 
To think I was not near, to keep 

One vigil o'er thy bed: 
To gaze, how fondly ! on thy face, 
To fold thee in a faint embrace, 

Uphold thy drooping head; 
And show that love, however vain, 
Nor thou nor I can feel again. 

Yet how much less it were to gain, 

Though thou hast left me free, 
The loveliest things that still remain 

Than thus remember thee ! 
The all of thine that cannot die 
Through dark and dread Eternity 

Returns again to me, 
And more thy buried love endears 
Than aught except its living years. 

Lord Byron. 

EVELYN HOPE 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead! 

Sit and watch by her side an hour. 
This is her book-shelf, this her bed; 

She plucked that piece of geranium-flower, 
Beginning to die too, in the glass; 

Little has yet been changed, I think: 
The shutters are shut, no light may pass 

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. 

Sixteen years old when she died ! 

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name; 
It was not her time to love; beside, 

Her life had many a hope and aim, 



212 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

Duties enough and little cares, 

And now was quiet, now astir, 
Till God's hand beckoned unawares, — 

And the sweet white brow is all of her. 

Is it too late then, Evelyn Hope? 

What, your soul was pure and true, 
The good stars met in your horoscope, 

Made you of spirit, fire and dew — 
And, just because I was thrice as old 

And our paths in the world diverged so wide. 
Each was naught to each, must I be told? 

We were fellow mortals, naught beside? 

No, indeed! for God above 

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, 
And creates the love to reward the love: 

I claim you still, for my own love's sake ! 
Delayed it may be for more lives yet, 

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a few: 
Much is to learn, much to forget 

Ere the time be come for taking you. 

But the time will come, — at last it will, 

When, Evelyn Hope, what, meant (I shall say) 
In the lower earth, in the years long still, 

That body and soul so pure and gay? 
Why your hair was amber, I shall divine, 

And your mouth of your own geranium's red — 
And what you would do with me, in fine, 

In the new life come in the old one's stead. 

I have lived (I shall say) so much since then, 

Given up myself so many times, 
Gained me the gains of various men, 

Ransacked the ages, spoiled the climes; 



HENRY FRANCIS LYTE 213 

Yet one thing, one, in my soul's full scope, 

Either I missed or itself missed me: 
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope ! 

What is the issue? Let us see! 

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while ! 

My heart seemed full as it could hold; 
There was place and to spare for the frank young smile, 

And the red young mouth, and the hair's young gold. 
So, hush, — I will give you this leaf to keep: 

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand! 
There, that is our secret: go to sleep! 

You will wake, and remember, and understand. 

B. Browning. 



AGNES' 

I saw her in childhood — 

A bright, gentle thing, 
Like the dawn of the morn, 

Or the dews of the spring: 
The daisies and hare-bells 

Her playmates all day; 
Herself as light-hearted 

And artless as they. 

I saw her again — 

A fair girl of eighteen, 
Fresh glittering with graces 

Of mind and of mien. 
Her speech was all music; 

Like moonlight she shone; 
The envy of many, 

The glory of one. 



214 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

Years, years fleeted over — 

I stood at her foot: 
The bud had grown blossom, 

The blossom was fruit. 
A dignified mother, 

Her infant she bore; 
And look'd, I thought, fairer 

Than ever before. 

I saw her once more — 

'Twas the day that she died; 
Heaven's light was around her, 

And God at her side; 
No wants to distress her, 

No fears to appal — 
O then, I felt, then 
* She was fairest of all! 

H. F. Lyte. 



GLEN-ALMA1N, THE NARROW GLEN 

I?r this still place, remote from men, 

Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen; 

In this still place, where murmurs on 

But one meek streamlet, only one: 

He sang of battles, and the breath 

Of stormy war, and violent death; 

And should, methinks, when all was past, 

Have rightfully been laid at last 

Where rocks were rudely heap'd, and rent 

As by a spirit turbulent; 

Where sights were rough, and sounds were wild, 

And everything unreconciled; 



WALT WHITMAN 215 

In some complaining, dim retreat, 
For fear and melancholy meet; 
But this is calm; there cannot be 
A more entire tranquillity. 

Does then the Bard sleep here indeed? 
Or is it but a groundless creed? 
What matters it? — I blame them not 
Whose fancy in this lonely spot 
Was moved; and in such way express'd 
Their notion of its perfect rest. 
A convent, even a hermit's cell, 
Would break the silence of this Dell: 
It is not quiet, is not ease; 
But something deeper far than these: 
The separation that is here 
Is of the grave; and of austere 
Yet happy feelings of the dead: 
And, therefore, was it rightly said 
That Ossian, last of all his race! 
Lies buried in this lonely place. 

W. Wordsworth. 

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; 
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize we sought is 
won; 
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, 
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and 
daring: 

But O heart ! heart ! heart ! 

O the bleeding drops of red, 
Where on the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 



216 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

O Captain ! my Captain ! rise up and hear the bells ; 
Rise up — for you the flag is flung— for you the bugle trills; 
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths — for you the 

shores a-crowding; 
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces 
turning ; 

Here, Captain ! dear father ! 

This arm beneath your head; 
It is some dream that on the deck, 
You've fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not answer, his lips are cold and still; 
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; 
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and 

done; 
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object 
won: 

Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells! 

But I, with mournful tread, 
Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

W, Whitman, 



CORONACH 

He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain, 

When our need was the sorest. 
The font reappearing 

From the raindrops shall borrow, 
But to us comes no cheering s 

To Duncan no morrow ! 



THOMAS HOOD 217 

The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ears that are hoary, 
But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest, 
But our flower was in flushing 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi, 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 

Thou art gone ; and for ever ! 

Sir W. Scott. 



THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS 

One more Unfortunate 
Weary of breath, 
Rashly importunate, 
Gone to her death ! 
Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care; 
Fashion'd so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair ! 

Look at her garments 
Clinging like cerements; 
Whilst the wave constantly 



218 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

Drips from her clothing; 
Take her up instantly, 
Loving, not loathing. 

Touch her not scornfully; 
Think of her mournfully, 
Gently and humanly; 
Not of the stains of her — 
All that remains of her 
Now is pure womanly. 

Make no deep scrutiny 
Into her mutiny 
Rash and undutiful: 
Past all dishonour, 
Death has left on her 
Only the beautiful. 

Still, for, all slips of hers, 
One of Eve's family — 
Wipe those poor lips of hers 
Oozing so clammily. 

Loop up her tresses 
Escaped from the comb, 
Her fair auburn tresses; 
Whilst wonderment guesses 
Where was her home? 

Who was her father? 

Who was her mother? 

Had she a sister? 

Had she a brother? 

Or was there a dearer one 

Still, and a nearer one 

Yet, than all other? 



THOMAS HOOD 219 

Alas! for the rarity 
Of Christian charity 
Under the sun ! 
Oh ! it was pitiful ! 
Near a whole city full, 
Home she had none. 

Sisterly, brotherly, 
Fatherly, motherly 
Feelings had changed: 
Love, by harsh evidence, 
Thrown from its eminence; 
Even God's providence 
Seeming estranged. 

Where the lamps quiver 

So far in the river, 

With many a light 

From window and casement, 

From garret to basement, 

She stood, with amazement, 

Houseless by night. 

The bleak wind of March 
Made her tremble and shiver 
But not the dark arch, 
Or the black flowing river: 
Mad from life's history, 
Glad to death's mystery 
Swift to be hurl'd— 
Any where, any where 
Out of the world! 

In she plunged boldly, 
No matter how coldly 
The rough river ran, — 



220 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

Over the brink of it, 
Picture it — think of it, 
Dissolute Man! 
Lave in it, drink of it, 
Then, if you can ! 

Take her up tenderly, 
Lift her with care; 
Fashion' d so slenderly, 
Young, and so fair! 

Ere her limbs frigidly 
Stiffen too rigidly, 
Decently, kindly, 
Smooth and compose them, 
And her eyes, close them, 
Staring so blindly ! 

Dreadfully staring 
Thro' muddy impurity, 
As when with the daring 
Last look of despairing 
Fix'd on futurity. 

Perishing gloomily, 
Spurr'd by contumely, 
Cold inhumanity, 
Burning insanity, 
Into her rest. 
— Cross her hands humbly 
As if praying dumbly, 
Over her breast! 

Owning her weakness, 
Her evil behaviour, 
And leaving, with meekness, 
Her sins to her Saviour. 

T. Hood. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 221 

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 

We walk'd along, while bright and red 
Uprose the morning sun; 
And Matthew stopp'd, he look'd, and said 
' The will of God be done ! ' 

A village schoolmaster was he, 
With hair of glittering gray; 
As blithe a man as you could see 
On a spring holiday. 

And on that morning, through the grass 
And by the steaming rills 
We travell'd merrily, to pass 
A day among the hills. 

' Our work,' said I, ' was well begun ; 
Then, from thy breast what thought, 
Beneath so beautiful a sun, 
So sad a sigh has brought?' 

A second time did Matthew stop; 
And fixing still his eye 
Upon the eastern mountain-top, 
To me he made reply: 

' Yon cloud with that long purple cleft 
Brings fresh into my mind 
A day like this, which I have left 
Full thirty years behind. 

' And just above yon slope of corn 
Such colours, and no other, 
Were in the sk} r that April morn, 
Of this the very brother. 



222 POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

' With rod and line I sued the sport 
Which that sweet season gave, 
And to the ehureh-yard come, stopp'd short 
Beside my daughter's grave. 

' Nine summers had she scarcely seen, 
The pride of all the vale; 
And then she sang, — she would have been 
A very nightingale. 

' Six feet in earth my Emma lay ; 
And yet I loved her more — 
For so it seem'd,— than till that day 
I e'er had loved before. 

' And turning from her grave, I met, 
Beside the church-yard yew, 
A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet 
With points of morning dew. 

' A basket on her head she bare; 
Her brow was smooth and white: 
To see a child so very fair, 
It was a pure delight! 

' No fountain from its rocky cave 
E'er tripp'd with foot so free; 
She seem'd as happy as a wave 
That dances on the sea. 

' There came from me a sigh of pain 
Which I could ill confine; 
I look'd at her, and look'd again: 
And did not wish her mine ! ' 



WILLIAM COLLINS 223 

— Matthew is in his grave, yet now 
Methinks I see him stand 
As at that moment, with a bough 
Of wilding in his hand. 

W. Wordsworth. 



ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 
By all their country's wishes blest ! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, 
Returns to deck their hallow'd mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung, 
By forms unseen their dirge is sung: 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their clay; 
And Freedom shall awhile repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! 

W. Collins. 



POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 



A BOY'S 80NG 

Where the pools are bright and deep, 
Where the grey trout lies asleep, 
Up the river and o'er the lea, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the blackbird sings the latest, 
Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, 
Where the nestlings chirp and flee, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, 
Where the hay lies tt'ck and greenest; 
There to trace the homeward bee, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

Where the hazel bank is steepest, 
Where the shadow falls the deepest, 
Where the clustering nuts fall free, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

Why the boys should drive away 
Little maidens from their play, 
Or love to banter and fight so well, 
That's the thing I never could tell. 

But this I know, I love to play, 
Through the meadow, among the hay: 
Up the water and o'er the lea, 
That's the way for Billy and me. 

/. Hogg. 
224 



CHARLES KINGSLEY 225 

ODE TO THE NORTHEAST WIND 

Welcome, wild Northeaster! 

Shame it is to see 
Odes to every zephyr; 

Ne'er a verse to thee. 
Welcome, black Northeaster! 

O'er the German foam; 
O'er the Danish moorlands, 

From thy frozen home. 
Tired we are of summer, 

Tired of gaudy glare, 
Showers soft and steaming, 

Hot and breathless air. 
Tired of listless dreaming, 

Through the lazy day; 
Jovial wind of winter 

Turn us out to play! 
Sweep the golden reed-beds; 

Crisp the lazy dyke; 
Hunger into madness 

Every plunging pike. 
Fill the lake with wild- fowl; 

Fill the marsh with snipe; 
While on dreary moorlands 

Lonely curlew pipe. 
Through the black fir forest 

Thunder harsh and dry, 
Shattering down the snowflakes 

Off the curdled sky. 
Hark! the brave Northeaster! 

Breast-high lies the scent, 
On by holt and headland, 

Over heath and bent. 
Chime, ye dappled darlings, 

Through the sleet and snow, 



226 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

Who can override you? 

Let the horses go! 
Chime, ye dappled darlings, 

Down the roaring blast; 
You shall see a fox die 

Ere an hour be past. 
Go! and rest to-morrow, 

Hunting in your dreams, 
While our skates are ringing 

O'er the frozen streams. 
Let the luscious South-wind 

Breathe in lovers' sighs, 
While the lazy gallants 

Bask in ladies' eyes. 
What does he but soften 

Heart alike and pen? 
'Tis the hard gray weather 

Breeds hard English men. 
What's, the soft Southwester? 

'Tis the ladies' breeze, 
Bringing home their true loves 

Out of all the seas; 
But the black Northeaster, 

Through the snowstorm hurled, 
Drives our English hearts of oak, 

Seaward round the world ! 
Come! as came our fathers, 

Heralded by thee, 
Conquering from the eastward 

Lords by land and- sea. 
Come! and strong within us 

Stir the Vikings' blood; 
Bracing brain and sinew; 

Blow, thou wind of God ! 

C. Kingsley. 



CHARLES KINGSLEY 227 



CLEAR AND COOL 

Clear and cool, clear and cool, 
By laughing shallow and dreaming pool; 

Cool and clear, cool and clear, 
By shining shingle and foaming weir; 
Under the crag where the ousel sings, 
And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, 
Undefiled, for the undefiled; 

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. 

Dank and foul, dank and foul, 
By the smoky town in its murky cowl; 

Foul and dank, foul and dank, 
By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; 
Darker and darker the farther I go, 
Baser and baser the richer I grow; 

Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? 

Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child. 

Strong and free, strong and free, 
The flood gates are open, away to the sea, 

Free and strong, free and strong, 
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along, 
To the golden sands, and the leaping bar, 
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar. 
As I lose myself in the infinite main, 
Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again, 
Undefiled, for the undefiled; 

Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child. 

C. Kingsley. 



228 POEMS ON THE WORLD OP NATURE 

TO THE EVENING STAB 

Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even, 
Companion of retiring day, 
Why at the closing gates of heaven, 
Beloved Star, dost thou delay? 

So fair thy pensile beauty burns 
When soft the tear of twilight flows; 
So due thy plighted love returns 
To chambers brighter than the rose; 

To Peace, to Pleasure, and to Love 
So kind a star thou seem'st to be, 
Sure some enamour'd orb above 
Descends and burns to meet with thee. 

Thine is the breathing, blushing hour 
When all unheavenly passions fly, 
Chased by the soul-subduing power 
Of Love's delicious witchery. 

O ! sacred to the fall of day 
Queen of propitious stars, appear, 
And early rise, and long delay, 
When Caroline herself is here ! 

Shine on her chosen green resort 
Whose trees the sunward summit crown, 
And wanton flowers, that well may court 
An angel's feet to tread them down: — 

Shine on her sweetly scented road 
Thou star of evening's purple dome, 
That lead'st the nightingale abroad, 
And guid'st the pilgrim to his home. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 229 

Shine where my charmer's sweeter breath 
Embalms the soft exhaling dew, 
Where dying winds a sigh bequeath 
To kiss the cheek of rosy hue: — 

Where, winnow'd by the gentle air, 
Her silken tresses darkly flow 
And fall upon her brow so fair, 
Like shadows on the mountain snow. 

Thus, ever thus, at day's decline 
In converse sweet to wander far— 
O bring with thee my Caroline, 
And thou shaft be my Ruling Star! 

T. Campbell. 



SONG TO THE EVENING STAR 

Star that bringest home the bee, 
And sett'st the weary labourer free ! 
If any star shed peace, 'tis Thou 

That send'st it from above, 
Appearing when Heaven's breath and brow 

Are sweet as hers we love. 

Come to the luxuriant skies, 
Whilst the landscape's odours rise, 
Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard 
And songs when toil is done, 



Curls yellow in the sun. 

Star of love's soft interviews, 
Parted lovers on thee muse: 



230 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

Their remembrancer in Heaven 

Of thrilling vows thou art, 
Too delicious to be riven 

By absence from the heart. 

T. Campbell. 

THE DAFFODILS 

I wander'd lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils, 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretch'd in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 
Ten thousand saw I at a glance 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: — 

A Poet could not but be gay 

In such a jocund company! 

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought 

What wealth the show to me had brought; 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 
They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 
And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 

W. Wordsworth. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 231 

TO THE DAISY 

With little here to do or see 

Of things that in the great world be, 

Sweet Daisy ! oft I talk to thee 

For thou art worthy, 
Thou unassuming Common-place 
Of Nature, with that homely face, 
And yet with something of a grace 

Which Love makes for thee ! 

Oft on the dappled turf at ease 

I sit and play with similes, 

Loose types of things through all degrees, 

Thoughts of thy raising; 
And many a fond and idle name 
I give to thee, for praise or blame 
As is the humour of the game, 

While I am gazing. 

A nun demure, of lowly port; 

Or sprightly maiden, of Love's court, 

In thy simplicity the sport 

Of all temptations; 
A queen in crown of rubies drest; 
A starveling in a scanty vest; 
Are all, as seems to suit thee best, 

Thy appellations. 

A little Cyclops, with one eye 
Staring to threaten and defy, 
That thought comes next — and instantly 

The freak is over, 
The shape will vanish, and behold ! 



232 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

A silver shield with boss of gold 
That spreads itself, some faery bold 
In fight to cover. 

I see thee glittering from afar — 
And then thou art a pretty star, 
Not quite so fair as many are 

In heaven above thee! 
Yet like a star, with glittering crest, 
Self-poised in air thou seem'st to rest; — 
May peace come never to his nest 

Who shall reprove thee ! 

Sweet Flower ! for by that name at last 

When all my reveries are past 

I call thee, and to that cleave fast, 

Sweet silent Creature! 
That breath'st with me in sun and air, 
Do thou, as thou art wont, repair 
My heart with gladness, and a share 

Of thy meek nature ! 

W. Wordsworth. 



THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS * 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main, — 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings 
In Gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 
And the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair. 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 233 

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl ! 

And every chambered cell, 
Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, 
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, 

Before thee lies revealed, — 
Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed ! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 
He left the past year's dwelling for the new, 
Stole with soft step its shining archway through, 

Built up its idle door, 
Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. 

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn; 
From thy dead lips a clearer note is born 
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn ! 

While on mine ear it rings, 
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings: — 

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll ! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 
Let each new temple, nobler than the last, 
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 
Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea ! 

O. W. Holmes. 



234 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

TO A MO USE, 

ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST, WITH THE PLOUGH, 
NOVEMBER, 1785 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie, 

what a panic 's in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickerin' brattle! 

1 wad be laith to rin and chase thee, 

Wi' murd'rin' pattle! 

I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union, 
An' justifies that ill opinion 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve; 
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daimen icker in a thrave 

S a sma' request: 
I'll get a blessing wi' the lave, 

And never miss't! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ' ! 

An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 

Baith snell an' keen! 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste, 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 235 

An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell, 

Till, crash ! the cruel coulter past 
Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble 

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble ! 

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 
In proving foresight may be vain: 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft agley, 
An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promised joy. 

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me! 
The present only toucheth thee: 
But, och! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear! 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear! 

R. Burns. 



TO A SKYLARK 

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! 

Bird thou never wert, 
That from heaven, or near it 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. 



236 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest, 
Like a cloud of fire, 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 

Of the sunken sun 
O'er which clouds are brightening, 

Thou dost float and run, 
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. 

The pale purple even 

Melts around thy flight; 
Like a star of heaven 
In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere, 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear 
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. 

All the earth and air 

With thy voice is loud, 
As, when night is bare, 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee? 
From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see 
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody; — 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 237 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 
Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 

In a palace tower, 
Soothing her love-laden 

Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: 

Like a glow-worm golden 

In a dell of dew, 
Scattering unbeholden 
Its aerial hue 
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the 
view : 

Like a rose embower'd 

In its own green leaves, 
By warm winds deflower'd, 
Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy -winged 
thieves. 

Sound of vernal showers 
On the twinkling grass, 
Rain-awakenVl flower ? 
All that ever was 
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 
I have never heard 

Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. 



238 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

Chorus hymeneal 

Or triumphal chaunt 
Match'd with thine, would be all 

But an empty vaunt— 
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 

Of thy happy strain? 
What fields, or waves, or mountains? 

What shapes of sky or plain? 
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? 

With thy clear keen joyance 

Languor cannot be: 
Shadow of annoyance 

Never came near thee: 
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep 

Thou of death must deem 
Things more true and deep 

Than we mortals dream, 
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? 

We look before and after, 

And pine for what is not: 
Our sincerest laughter 

With some pain is fraught; 
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear; 
If we were things born 

Not to shed a tear, 
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 239 

Better than all measures 

Of delightful sound, 
Better than all treasures 

That in books are found, 
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground ! 

Teach me half the gladness 

That thy brain must know, 
Such harmonious madness 
From my lips Mould flow, 
The world should listen then, as I am listening now ! 

P. B. Shelley. 

TO THE SKYLARK 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? 
Or while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 
Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? 
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, 
Those quivering wings composed, that music still! 

To the last point of vision, and beyond 
Mount, daring warbler! — that love-promoted strain 
— 'Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond — 
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: 
Yet might'st thou seem, proud privilege ! to sing 
All independent of the leafy Spring. 

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; 

A privacy of glorious light is thine, 

Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood 

Of harmony, with instinct more divine; 

Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam — 

True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. 

W. Wordsworth. 



240 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

TO THE CUCKOO 

blithe new-comer ! I have heard, 

1 hear thee and rejoice: 

Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 
Or but a wandering Voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear; 
From hill to hill it seems to pass, 
At once far off and near. 

Though babbling only to the vale 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring ! 

Even yet thou art to me 

No bird, but an invisible thing, 

A voice, a mystery; 

The same whom in my school-boy days 

1 listen'd to; that Cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love; 
Still long'd for, never seen ! 

And I can listen t© thee yet; 
Can lie upon the plain 
And listen, till I do beget 
That golden time again. 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 241 

O blessed Bird ! the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 
An unsubstantial, faery place, 
That is fit home for Thee ! 

W. Wordsworth. 

THE EAGLE 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ring'd with the azure world he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls; 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

A. Tennyson. 

TO A WATERFOWL* 

Whither, 'midst falling dew 
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, 
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue 

Thy solitary way? 

Vainly the fowler's eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek'st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocky billows rise and sink 

On the chafed ocean side? 

* Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poems, by permission of D. 
Appleton and Company. 



242 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

There is a power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, — 
The desert and illimitable air, — 

Lone wondering, but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fanned, 
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, 
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, 

Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest. 

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given 

And shall not soon depart. 

He who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, 
In the long way that I must tread alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 

W. C. Bryant. 

TO THE MOON 

Art thou pale for weariness 
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, 

Wandering companionless 
Among the stars that have a different birth, — 
And ever-changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy? 

P. B. Shelley. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 243 

TO THE NIGHT 

Swiftly walk over the western wave, 

Spirit of Night! 
Out of the misty eastern cave 
Where, all the long and lone daylight, 
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear 
Which make thee terrible and dear, — 

Swift be thy flight! 

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray 

Star-inwrought ; 
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day, 
Kiss her until she be wearied out: 
Then wander o'er city and sea and land, 
Touching all with thine opiate wand — 

Come, long-sought ! 

When I arose and saw the dawn, 

I sigh'd for thee; 
When light rode high, and the dew was gone, 
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, 
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest 
Lingering like an unloved guest, 

I sigh'd for thee. 

Thy brother Death came, and cried 

Wouldst thou me? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, 
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee 
Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me? — And I replied 

No, not thee ! 



244 POEMS ON THE WORLD OP NATURE 

Death will come when thou art dead, 

Soon, too soon — 
Sleep will come when thou art fled; 
Of neither would I ask the boon 
I ask of thee, beloved Night — 
Swift be thine approaching flight, 
Come soon, soon ! 

P. B. Shelley. 



NATURE AND THE POET 

Suggested by a Picture of Peele Castle in a Storm, 
by Sir George Beaumont 

I was thy neighbour once, thou rugged Pile ! 
Four summer weeks I dwelt in sight of thee: 
I saw thee every day; and all the while 
Thy Form was sleeping on a glassy sea. 

So pure the sky, so quiet was the air ! 
So like, so very like, was day to day ! 
Whene'er I look'd, thy image still was there; 
It trembled, but it never pass'd away. 

How perfect was the calm ! It seem'd no sleep, 
No mood, which season takes away, or brings: 
I could have fancied that the mighty Deep 
Was even the gentlest of all gentle things. 

Ah ! then — if mine had been the painter's hand 
To express what then I saw; and add the gleam, 
The light that never was on sea or land, 
The consecration, and the Poet's dream, — 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 245 

I would have planted thee, thou hoary pile, 
Amid a world how different from this ! 
Beside a sea that could not cease to smile; 
On tranquil land, beneath a sky of bliss. 

Thou shouldst have seem'd a treasure-house divine 
Of peaceful years; a chronicle of heaven; — 
Of all the sunbeams that did ever shine 
The very sweetest had to thee been given. 

A picture had it been of lasting ease, 
Elysian quiet, without toil or strife; 
No motion but the moving tide; a breeze; 
Or merely silent Nature's breathing life. 

Such, in the fond illusion of my heart, 

Such picture would I at that time have made; 

And seen the soul of truth in every part, 

A steadfast peace that might not be betray'd. 

So once it would have been, — 'tis so no more; 
I have submitted to a new control: 
A power is gone, which nothing can restore; 
A deep distress hath humanized my soul. 

Not for a moment could I now behold 
A smiling sea, and be what I have been: 
The feeling of my loss will ne'er be old; 
This, which I know, I speak with mind serene. 

Then, Beaumont, Friend ! who would have been the friend 
If he had lived, of Him whom I deplore, 
This work of thine I blame not, but commend; 
This sea in anger, and that dismal shore. 



246 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

'tis a passionate work! — yet wise and well, 
Well chosen is the spirit that is here; 

That hulk which labours in the deadly swell, 
This rueful sky, this pageantry of fear! 

And this huge Castle, standing here sublime, 

1 love to see the look with which it braves, 

— Cased in the unfeeling armour of old time — 
The lightning, the fierce wind, and trampling waves. 

— Farewell, farewell the heart that lives alone, 
Housed in a dream, at distance from the Kind ! 
Such happiness, wherever it be known, 
Is to be pitied; for 'tis surely blind. 

But welcome fortitude, and patient cheer, 
And frequent sights of what is to be borne! 
Such sights, or worse, as are before me here: — 
Not without hope we suffer and we mourn. 

W. Wordsworth. 



THE INVITATION 

Best and brightest, come away, — 

Fairer far than this fair Day, 

Which, like thee, to those in sorrow 

Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 

To the rough year just awake 

In its cradle on the brake. 

The brightest hour of unborn Spring 

Through the winter wandering, 

Found, it seems, the halcyon morn 

To hoar February born; 

Bending from heaven, in azure mirth, 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 247 

4 

It kiss'd the forehead of the earth, 
And smiled upon the silent sea, 
And bade the frozen streams be free, 
And waked to music all their fountains, 
And breathed upon the frozen mountains, 
And like a prophetess of May 
Strew'd flowers upon the barren way, 
Making the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Away, away, from men and towns, 
To the wild wood and the downs — 
To the silent wilderness 
Where the soul need not repress 
Its music, lest it should not find 
An echo in another's mind, 
While the touch of Nature's art 
Harmonizes heart -to heart. 



Radiant Sister of the Day 
Awake ! arise ! and come away ! 
To the wild woods and the plains, 
To the pools where winter rains 
Image all their roof of leaves, 
Where the pine its garland weaves 
Of sapless green, and ivy dun, 
Round stems that never kiss the sun; 
Where the lawns and pastures be 
And the sandhills of the sea; 
Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
The daisy-star that never sets, 
And wind-flowers and violets 
Which yet join not scent to hue 
Crown the pale year weak and new; 



248 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

When the night is left behind 
In the deep east, dim and blind, 
And the blue noon is over us, 
And the multitudinous 
Billows murmur at our feet, 
Where the earth and ocean meet, 
And all things seem only one 
In the universal Sun. 

P. B. Shelley. 



THE RECOLLECTION 

Now the last day of many days 
All beautiful and bright as thou, 
The loveliest and the last, is dead: 
Rise, Memory, and write its praise ! 
Up — to thy wonted work ! come, trace 
The epitaph of glory fled, 
For now the earth has changed its face, 
A frown is on the heaven's brow. 

We wander'd to the Pine Forest 

That skirts the Ocean's foam; 
The lightest wind was in its nest, 

The tempest in its home. 
The whispering waves were half asleep, 

The clouds were gone to play, 
And on the bosom of the deep 

The smile of heaven lay; 
It seem'd as if the hour were one 

Sent from beyond the skies 
Which scatter'd from above the sun 

A light of Paradise ! 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 249 

We paused amid the pines that stood 

The giants of the waste, 
Tortured hy storms to shapes as rude 

As serpents interlaced, — 
And soothed by every azure breath 

That under heaven is blown, 
To harmonies and hues beneath, 

As tender as its own: 
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep 

Like green waves on the sea, 
As still as in the silent deep 

The ocean-woods may be. 

How calm it was ! — The silence there 

By such a chain was bound, 
That even the busy woodpecker 

Made stiller with her sound 
The inviolable quietness; 

The breath of peace we drew 
With its soft motion made not less 

The calm that round us grew. 
There seem'd, from the remotest seat 

Of the white mountain waste 
To the soft flower beneath our feet, 

A magic circle traced, — 
A spirit interfused around, 

A thrilling silent life; 
To momentary peace it bound 

Our mortal nature's strife; — 
And still I felt the centre of 

The magic circle there 
Was one fair form that fill'd with love 

The lifeless atmosphere. 

We paused beside the pools that lie 
Under the forest bough; 



250 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

Each seem'd as 'twere a little sky 

Gulf'd in a world below; 
A firmament of purple light 

Which in the dark earth lay, 
More boundless than the depth of night 

And purer than the day — 
In which the lovely forests grew 

As in the upper air, 
More perfect both in shape and hue 

Than any spreading there. 
There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, 

And through the dark-green wood 
The white sun twinkling like the dawn 

Out of a speckled cloud. 
Sweet views which in our world above 

Can never well be seen 
Were imaged in the water's love 

Of that fair forest green: 
And all was interfused beneath 

With an Elysian glow, 
An atmosphere without a breath, 

A softer day below. 
Like one beloved, the scene had lent 

To the dark water's breast 
Its every leaf and lineament 

With more than truth exprest; 
Until an envious wind crept by, 

Like an unwelcome thought 
Which from the mind's too faithful eye 

Blots one dear image out. 
— Though thou art ever fair and kind, 

The forests ever green, 
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind 

Than calm in waters seen! 

P. B. Shelley. 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 251 



THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION 

O leave this barren spot to me ! 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 
Though bush or floweret never grow 
My dark unwarming shade below; 
Nor summer bud perfume the dew 
Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; 
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, 
My green and glossy leaves adorn; 
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive 
Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; 
Yet leave this barren spot to me: 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree ! 

Thrice twenty summers I have seen 
The sky grow bright, the forest green; 
And many a wintry wind have stood 
In bloomless, fruitless solitude, 
Since childhood in my pleasant bower 
First spent its sweet and sportive hour; 
Since youthful lovers in my shade 
Their vows of truth and rapture made, 
And on my trunk's surviving frame 
Carved many a long-forgotten name. 
Oh ! by the sighs of gentle sound, 
First breathed upon this sacred ground; 
By all that Love has whisper'd here, 
Or Beauty heard with ravish'd ear; 
As Love's own altar honour me: 
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! 

T. Campbell. 



252 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVERSNEYDE 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 

Of beauty is thy earthly dower! 

Twice seven consenting years have shed 

Their utmost bounty on thy head: 

And these gray rocks, that household lawn, 

Those trees — a veil just half withdrawn, 

This fall of water that doth make 

A murmur near the silent lake, 

This little bay, a quiet road 

That holds in shelter thy abode; 

In truth together ye do seem 

Like something fashion'd in a dream; 

Such forms as from their covert peep 

When earthly cares are laid asleep ! 

But O fair Creature ! in the light 

Of common day, so heavenly bright, 

I bless Thee, Vision as thou art, 

I bless thee with a human heart: 

God shield thee to thy latest years ! 

Thee neither know I nor thy peers: 

And yet my eyes are filled with tears. 

With earnest feeling I shall pray 
For thee when I am far away; 
For never saw I mien or face 
In which more plainly I could trace 
Benignity and home-bred sense 
Ripening in perfect innocence. 
Here scatter'd, like a random seed, 
Remote from men, Thou dost not need 
The embarrass'd look of shy distress, 
And maidenly shamef acedness : 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 253 

Thou wear'st upon thy forehead clear 
The freedom of a Mountaineer: 
A face with gladness overspread; 
Soft smiles, by human kindness bred; 
And seemliness complete, that sways 
Thy courtesies, about thee plays; 
With no restraint, but such as springs 
From quick and eager visitings 
Of thoughts that lie beyond the reach 
Of thy few words of English speech: 
A bondage sweetly brook'd, a strife 
That gives thy gestures grace and life ! 
So have I, not unmoved in mind, 
Seen birds of tempest-loving kihd — 
Thus beating up against the wind. 

What hand but would a garland cull 
For thee who art so beautiful? 

happy pleasure ! here to dwell 
Beside thee in some heathy dell; 
Adopt your homely ways, and dress, 
A shepherd, thou a shepherdess ! 
But I could frame a wish for thee 
More like a grave reality: 

Thou art to me but as a wave 
Of the wild sea: and I would have 
Some claim upon thee, if I could, 
Though but of common neighbourhood. 
What joy to hear thee, and to see! 
Thy elder brother I would be, 
Thy father — anything to thee. 

Now thanks to Heaven ! that of its grace 
Hath led me to this lonely place: 
Joy have I had; and going hence 

1 bear away my recompence. 



254 POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

In spots like these it is we prize 

Our Memory, feel that she hath eyes: 

Then why should I be loth to stir? 

I feel this place was made for her; 

To give new pleasure like the past, 

Continued long as life shall last. 

Nor am I loth, though pleased at heart, 

Sweet Highland Girl! from thee to part; 

For I, methinks, till I grow old 

As fair before me shall behold 

As I do now, the cabin small, 

The lake, the bay, the waterfall; 

And Thee, the Spirit of them all ! 

W. Wordsworth. 



THE REAPER 

Behold her, single in the field, 
Yon solitary Highland Lass ! 
Reaping and singing by herself; 
Stop here, or gently pass! 
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain; 
O listen ! for the vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No nightingale did ever chaunt 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands: 
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard 
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas 
Among the farthest Hebrides. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 255 

Will no one tell me what she sings? 

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 

For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago: 

Or is it some more humble lay, 

Familiar matter of to-day? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 

That has been, and may be again! 

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending; 
I saw her singing at her work, 
And o'er the sickle bending; — 
I listen'd, motionless and still; 
And as I mounted up the hill, 
The music in my heart I bore 
Long after it was heard no more. 

W. Wordsworth. 



MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN I BEHOLD 

My heart leaps up when I behold 

A rainbow in the sky: 
So was it when my life began, 
So is it now I am a man, 
So be it when I shall grow old 

Or let me die ! 
The Child is father of the Man: 
And I could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

W. Wordsworth. 



POEMS OF LOYALTY AND PATRIOTISM 

CONCORD HYMN * 

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, 
APRIL 19, 1836 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood, 
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled, 

Here once the embattled farmers stood, 
And fired the shot heard round the world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone; 
That memory may their deed redeem, 

When, like our sires, our sons are gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 

To die, and leave their children free, 
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

B. W. Emerson. 
* By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. 
256 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 257 

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 

Ye Mariners of England 

That guard our native seas ! 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 

The battle and the breeze ! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe: 

And sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave — 

For the deck it was their field of fame, 

And Ocean was their grave: 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell 

Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy winds do blow; 

While the battle rages loud and long 

And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwarks, 

No towers along the steep; 

Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 

Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak 

She quells the floods below — 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy winds do blow; 

When the battle rages loud and long, 

And the stormv winds do blow. 



258 POEMS OF LOYALTY AND PATRIOTISM 

The meteor flag of England 

Shall yet terrific burn; 

Till danger's troubled night depart 

And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors ! 

Our song and feast shall flow 

To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 

When the fiery fight is heard no more, 

And the storm has ceased to blow. 

T. Campbell 



PRO P ATRIA MORI 

When he who adores thee has left but the name 

Of his fault and his sorrows behind, 
Oh ! say wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame 

Of a life that for thee was resigned ! 
Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn, 

Thy tears shall efface their decree; 
For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them, 

I have been but too faithful to thee. 

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love; 

Every thought of my reason was thine: 
In my last humble prayer to the Spirit above 

Thy name shall be mingled with mine! 
Oh! blest are the lovers and friends who shall live 

The days of thy glory to see; 
But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give 

Is the pride of thus dying for thee. 

T. Moore. 



ROBERT BURNS %59 

BANNOCKBUBN: ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS 
TO HIS ARMY 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, 
Welcome to your gory bed, 
Or to Victorie. 

Now's the day, and now's the hour; 
See the front o' battle lower; 
See approach proud Edward's power — 
Chains and Slaverie ! 

Wha will be a traitor knave? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave? 
Wha sae base as be a slave? 
Let him turn and flee ! 

Wha' for Scotland's King and Law, 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or Free-man fa'? 
Let him on wi' me ! 

By Oppression's woes and pains ! 
By your Sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free! 

Lay the proud Usurpers low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! — 
Let us Do, or Die ! 

R. Burns. 



260 POEMS OF LOYALTY AND PATRIOTISM 

HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM ABROAD 

Oh, to be in England 

Now that April's there, 

And whoever wakes in England 

Sees, some morning, unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brush-wood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough 

In England — now ! 

And after April, when May follows, 

And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows ! 

Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on the clover 

Blossoms and dewdrops — at the bent spray's edge — 

That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could recapture 

The first fine careless rapture ! 

And though the fields look rough with hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noontide wakes anew 

The buttercups, the little children's dower 

— Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower ! 

R. Browning. 



HOME-THOUGHTS, FROM THE SEA 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died 

away ; 
Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, reeking into Cadiz Bay; 
Bluish 'mid the burning water, full in face Trafalgar lay; 
In the dimmest Northeast distance dawned Gibraltar grand 

and gray; 






ROBERT BROWNING 261 

'Here and here did England help me: how can I help Eng- 
land ? ' — say, 

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn to God to praise and 
pray, 

W T hile Jove's planet rises yonder, silent over Africa. 

B. Browning. 



THE LOST LEADEB 

Just for a handful of silver he left us, 

Just for a riband to stick in his coat — 
Found the one gift of which fortune bereft us, 

Lost all the others she lets us devote; 
They, with the gold to give, doled him out silver, 

So much was theirs who so little allowed: 
How all our copper had gone for his service ! 

Rags — were they purple, his heart had been proud ! 
We that had loved him so, followed him, honored him, 

Lived in his mild and magnificent eye, 
Learned his great language, caught his clear accents, 

Made him our pattern to live and to die ! 
Shakespeare was of us, Milton was for us, 

Burns, Shelley, were with us, — they watch from their 
graves ! 
He alone breaks from the van and the freemen, 

— He alone sinks to the rear and the slaves ! 
We shall march prospering, — not through his presence; 

Songs may inspirit us, — not from his lyre; 
Deeds will be done, — while he boasts his quiescence, 

Still bidding crouch whom the rest bade aspire: 
Blot out his name, then, record one lost soul more, 

One task more declined, one more footpath untrod, 
One more devils'-triumph and sorrow for angels, 

One wrong more to man, one more insult to God ! 



262 POEMS OF LOYALTY AND PATRIOTISM 

Life's night begins: let him never come back to us! 

There would be doubt, hesitation and pain, 
Forced praise on our part — the glimmer of twilight, 

Never glad confident morning again ! 
Best fight on well, for we taught him — strike gallantly, 

Menace our heart ere we master his own; 
Then let him receive the new knowledge and wait us, 

Pardoned in heaven, the first by the throne ! 

R. Browning. 



CAVALIER TUNES 

I. Marching Along 

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King, 

Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing: 

And, pressing a troop unable to stoop, 

And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, 

Marched them along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 

God for King Charles ! Pym and such carles 

To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous paries ! 

Cavaliers, up ! Lips from the cup, 

Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup 

Till you're — 

Chorus. — Marching along, fifty T score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. 

Hampton to hell, and his obsequies' knell. 

Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! 

England, good cheer ! Rupert is near ! 

Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, 

Chorus. — Marching along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song? 



ROBERT BROWNING 263 

Then, God for King Charles ! Pym and his snarles 
To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! 
Hold by the right, you double } r our might; 
So, onward to Nottingham, fresh from the fight, 
Chorus. — March we along, fifty-score strong, 

Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song ! 

II. Give a Rouse 
King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 
King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 
Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 
King" Charles ! 

Who gave me the goods that went since? 
"Who raised me the house that sank once? 
W"ho helped me to gold I spent since? 
Who found me in wine you drank once? 

Cho- King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 

King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 

Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 

King Charles ! 

To whom used my boy George quaff else, 
By the old fool's side that begot him? 
For whom did he cheer and laugh else, 
While Noll's damned troopers shot him? 

Cho. — King Charles, and who'll do him right now? 

King Charles, and who's ripe for fight now? 

Give a rouse: here's, in hell's despite now, 

King Charles ! 

III. Boot and Saddle 
Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 
Rescue my castle before the hot day 
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray. 
Cho. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 



264 POEMS OF LOYALTY AND PATRIOTISM 

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; 
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray 
' God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay — 
Cho. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! ' 

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, 
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: 
Who laughs, ' Good fellows ere this, by my fay, 
Cho. — Boot,' saddle, to horse, and away ! ' 

Who? My wife Gertrude, that, honest and gay, 
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, ' Nay ! 
I've better counsellors; what counsel they? 
Cho. — Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! ' 

R. Browning. 



POEMS ON THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 

CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another's will; 
Whose armour is his honest thought 
And simple truth his utmost skill ! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Untied unto the world by care 
Of public fame, or private breath; 

Who envies none that chance doth raise 
Nor vice; Who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given by praise; 
Nor rules of state, but rules of good: 

Who hath his life from rumours freed, 
Whose conscience is his strong retreat; 
Whose state can neither flatterers feed, 
Nor ruin make oppressors great; 

Who God doth late and early pray 
More of His grace than gifts to lend; 
And entertains the harmless day 



265 



266 POEMS ON THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 

— This man is freed from servile bands 
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; 
Lord of himself, though not of lands; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Sir H. Wotton. 



THE RIVER OF LIFE 

The more we live, more brief appear 

Our life's succeeding stages: 
A day to childhood seems a year, 

And years like passing ages. 

The gladsome current of our youth, 

Ere passion yet disorders, 
Steals lingering like a river smooth 

Along its grassy borders. 

But as the care-worn cheek grows wan, 

And sorrow's shafts fly thicker, 
Ye Stars, that measure life to man, 

Why seem your courses quicker? 

When joys have lost their bloom and breath 

And life itself is vapid, 
Why, as we reach the Falls of Death, 

Feel we its tide more rapid? 

It may be strange — yet who would change 

Time's course to slower speeding, 
When one by one our friends have gone 

And left our bosoms bleeding? 






WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 267 

Heaven gives our years of fading strength 

Indemnifying fleetness; 
And those of youth, a seeming length, 

Proportion'd to their sweetness. 

T. Campbell. 

A LESSON 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine, 
That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, 
And the first moment that the sun may shine, 
Bright as the sun himself, 'tis out again ! 

When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, 
Or blasts the green field and the trees distrest, 
Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm 
In close self-shelter, like a thing at rest. 

But lately, one rough day, this Flower I past, 
And recognized it, though an alter'd form, 
Now standing forth an offering to the blast, 
And buffeted at will by rain and storm. 

I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice, 
' It doth not love the shower, nor seek the cold ; 
This neither is its courage nor its choice, 
But its necessity in being old. 

' The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew ; 
It cannot help itself in its decay; 
Stiff in its members, wither'd, changed of hue,' — 
And, in my spleen, I smiled that it was gray. 

To be a prodigal's favourite — then, worse truth, 
A miser's pensioner — behold our lot ! 
O Man ! that from thy fair and shining youth 
Age might but take the things Youth needed not ! 

W. Wordsworth. 



268 POEMS ON THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 

STANZAS 

Often rebuked, yet always back returning 

To those first feelings that were born with me, 

And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning 
For idle dreams of things that cannot be: 

To-day I will seek not the shadowy region; 

Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear; 
And visions rising, legion after legion, 

Bring the unreal world too strangely near. 

I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces, 

And not in paths of high morality, 
And not among the half-distinguished faces, 

The clouded forms of long-past history. 

I'll walk where my own nature would be leading: 

It vexes me to choose another guide: 
Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding; 

Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side. 

E. Bronte. 



WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING 

I heard a thousand blended notes 

While in a grove I sate reclined, 

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts 

Bring sad thoughts to the mind. 

To her fair works did Nature link 
The human soul that through me ran; 
And much it grieved my heart to think 
What Man has made of Man. 



ROBERT BURNS 269 

Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, 
The periwinkle trail'd its wreaths; 
And 'tis my faith that every flower 
Enjoys the air it breathes. 

The birds around me hopp'd and play'd 
Their thoughts I cannot measure, — 
But the least motion which they made 
It seem'd a thrill of pleasure. 

The budding twigs spread out their fan 
To catch the breezy air; 
And I must think, do all I can, 
That there was pleasure there. 

If this belief from heaven be sent, 
If such be Nature's holy plan, 
Have I not reason to lament 
What Man has made of Man? 

W. Wordsworth. 



A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT 

Is there for honest Poverty 

That hings his head, an' a' that; 
The coward slave— we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Our toils obscure an' a' that, 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The Man's the gowd for a' that. 

What though on hamely fare we dine, 
Wear hoddin grey, an' a' that; 



270 POEMS ON THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 
A Man's a Man for a' that: 

For a' that, an' a' that, 

Their tinsel show an' a' that; 

The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, 
Is king o' men for a' that. 

Ye see yon birkie ea'd ' a lord,' 

Wha struts an' stares, an' a' that; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that: 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

His ribband, star, an' a' that; 
The man o' independent mind 

He looks an' laughs at a' that. 

A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, an' a' that; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Gude faith, he mauna fa' that! 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

Their dignities an' a' that; ■ 
The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth, 

Are higher rank than a' that. 

Then let us pray that come it may 

(As come it will for a' that), 
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, 

Shall bear the gree, an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 

It's coming yet for a' that, 
The Man to Man, the world o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 

R. Burns. 



ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH 271 

TO MARGUERITE 

Yes! in the sea of life enisled, 

With echoing straits between us thrown, 

Dotting the shoreless watery wild, 

We mortal millions live alone. 

The islands feel the enclasping flow, 

And then their endless bounds they know. 

But when the moon their hollows lights, 
And they are swept by balms of spring, 
And in their glens, on starry nights, 
The nightingales divinely sing; 
And lovely notes, from shore to shore, 
Across the sounds and channels pour — ■ 

Oh ! then a longing like despair 

Is to their farthest caverns sent; 

For surely once, they feel, we were 

Parts of a single continent ! 

Now round us spreads the watery plain — 

Oh might our marges meet again ! 

Who order'd, that their longing's fire 
Should be, as soon as kindled, cool'd? 
Who renders vain their deep desire? — 
A God, a God their severance ruled ! 
And bade betwixt their shores to be 
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea. 

M. Arnold. 

WHERE LIES THE LAND? 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 



272 POEMS ON THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 

On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, 
Linked arm in arm, how pleasant here to pace; 
Or, o'er the stern reclining, watch below 
The foaming wake far widening as we go. 

' On stormy nights when wild north-westers rave, 
How proud a thing to fight with wind and wave ! 
The dripping sailor on the reeling mast 
Exults to bear, and scorns to wish it past. 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go? 
Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know. 
And where the land she travels from? Away, 
Far, far behind, is all that they can say. 

A. H. Clough. 



SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH 

Say not, the struggle nought availeth, 
The labour and the wounds are vain, 

The enemy faints not, nor faileth, 
And as things have been they remain. 

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; 

It maj'' be, in yon smoke concealed, 
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, 

And, but for you, possess the field. 

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, 
Seem here no painful inch to gain, 

Far back, through creeks and inlets making, 
Comes silen* flooding in, the main; 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 273 

And not by eastern windows only, 
When daylight comes, comes in the light, 

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, 
But westward, look, the land is bright. 

A. H. Clough. 



ON HIS 75TH BIRTHDAY 

I strove with none, for none was worth the strife, 
Nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art; 
I warmed both hands before the fire of life, 
It sinks, and I am ready to depart. 

W. S. Landor. 



THANATOPSIS* 

To him who in the love of Nature holds 

Communion with her visible forms, she speaks 

A various language; for his gayer hours 

She has a. voice of gladness, and a smile 

And eloquence of beauty, and she glides 

Into his darker musings, with a mild 

And healing sympathy, that steals away 

Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts 

Of the last bitter hour come like a blight 

Over thy spirit, and sad images 

Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, 

And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, 

Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart; — 

Go forth, under the open sky, and list 

To Nature's teachings, while from all around — 

* Reprinted from Bryant's Complete Poems, by permission of D. 
Appleton and Company. 



274 POEMS ON THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 

Earth and her waters, and the depths of air — 
Comes a still voice: — 

Yet a few days, and thee 
The all-beholding sun shall see no more 
In all his course ; nor yet in the cold ground, 
Where thy pale form was laid with many tears, 
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist 
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim 
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again, 
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up 
Thine individual being, shalt thou go 
To mix forever with the elements, 
To be a brother to the insensible rock 
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain 
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak 
Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mould. 

Yet not to thine eternal resting place 
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish 
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down 
With patriarchs of the infant world — with kings, 
The powerful of the earth — the wise, the good, 
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, 
All in one mighty sepulcher. The hills 
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun, — the vales 
Stretching in pensive quietness between; 
The venerable woods — rivers that move 
In majesty, and the complaining brooks 
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, 
Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste, — 
Are but the solemn decorations all 
Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, 
The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, 
Are shining on the sad abodes of death 



WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 275 

Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread 
The globe are but a handful to the tribes 
That slumber in its bosom. — Take the wings 
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, 
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods 
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound, 
Save his own dashings — yet the dead are there; 
And millions in those solitudes, since first 
The flight of years began, have laid them down 
In their last sleep — the dead reign there alone. 
So shalt thou rest, and what if thou withdraw 
In silence from the living, and no friend 
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe 
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh 
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care 
Plod on, and each one as before will chase 
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave 
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come 
And make their bed with thee. As the long train 
Of ages glides away, the sons of men — 
The youth in life's fresh spring, and he who goes 
In the full strength of years, matron and maid, 
The speechless babe, and the gray-headed man — 
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side, 
By those, who in their turn shall follow them. 

So live, that when thy summons comes to join 
The innumerable caravan, which moves 
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take 
His chamber in the silent halls of death, 
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, 
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed 
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams. 

W. C. Bryant. 



276 POEMS ON THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 
UP-HILL 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? 

Yes, to the very end. 
Will the day's journey take the whole long day? 

From morn to night, my friend. 

But is there for the night a resting place? 

A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. 
May not the darkness hide it from my face? 

You cannot miss that inn. 

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? 

Those who have gone before. 
Then must I knock, or call when just, in sight? 

They will not keep you standing at the door. 

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? 

Of labor you shall find the sum. 
Will there be beds for me and all who seek? 

Yes, beds for all who come. 

C. O. Rossetti. 

PRO SPICE 

Fear death? — to feel the fog in my throat, 

The mist in my face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am nearing the place, 
The power of the night, the press of the storm, 

The post of the foe; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 

Yet the strong man must go: 
For the journey is done and the summit attained, 

And the barriers fall, 



ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 277 

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained, 

The reward of it all. 
I was ever a fighter, so — one fight more, 

The best and the last ! 
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore, 

And bade me creep past. 
No ! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers 

The heroes of old, 
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears 

Of pain, darkness and cold. 
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave, 

The black minute's at end, 
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave, 

Shall dwindle, shall blend, 
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain, 

Then a light, then thy breast, 
O thou soul of my soul ! I shall clasp thee again, 

And with God be the rest! 

B. Browning. 



BE QUI EM 

Under the wide and starry sky, 
Dig the grave and let me lie, 
Glad have I lived, and gladly die, 
And I lay me down with a will. 

This be the verse you grave for me: 
Here he lies where he longed to be; 
Home is the sailor, home from sea, 
And the hunter home from the hill. 

B. L. Stevenson. 



POEMS IN SONNET FORM 

BY THE SEA 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free ; 

The holy time is quiet as a Nun 

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun 

Is sinking down in its tranquillity; 

The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea: 

Listen ! the mighty Being is awake, 

And doth with his eternal motion make 

A sound like thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear child ! dear girl ! that walkest with me here, 

If thou appear untouch'd by solemn thought 

Thy nature is not therefore less divine: 

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year, 

And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine, 

God being with thee when we know it not. 

W. Wordsworth. 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; 
Round many western islands have I been 
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told 
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne: 
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene 
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: 
— Then felt I like some watcher of the skies 

278 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 279 

When a new planet swims into his ken; 
Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes 
He stared at the Pacific — and all his men 
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise — 
Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

/. Keats. 

THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH WITH US 

The World is too much with us; late and soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers; 

Little we see in Nature that is ours ; 

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon ! 

This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon, 

The winds that will be howling at all hours 

And are up-gather'd now like sleeping flowers, 

For this, for everything, we are out of tune; 

It moves us not. — Great God ! I'd rather be 

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn, — 

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, 

Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; 

Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; 

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn. 

W. Wordsicorth. 

IF THOU MUST LOVE ME 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought 

Except for love's sake only. Do not say 

1 1 love her for her smile — her look — her way 

Of speaking gently, — for a trick of thought 

That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 

A sense of pleasant ease on such a day ' — 

For these things in themselves, Beloved, may 

Be changed, or change for thee, — and love, so wrought, 

May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 

Thine own sear pity's wiping my tears dry, — 



280 POEMS IN SONNET FORM 

A creature might forget to weep, who bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! 
But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou mayst love on, through love's eternity. 

E. B. Browning. 

HOW DO I LOVE THEE? 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. 

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height 

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight 

For the ends of Being and Ideal Grace. 

I love thee to the level of every day's 

Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight. 

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; 

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise; 

I love thee with the passion put to use 

In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith; 

I' love thee, with a love I seemed to lose 

With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath, 

Smiles, tears, of all my life ! — and, if God choose, 

I shall but love thee better after death. 

E. B. Browning. 

TO ONE WHO HAS BEEN LONG IN CITY PENT 

To one who has been long in city pent, 

'Tis very sweet to look into the fair 

And open face of heaven,— to breathe a prayer 

Full in the smile of the blue firmament. 

Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, 

Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair 

Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair 

And gentle tale of love and languishment? 

Returning home at evening, with an ear 

Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye 



WILLIAM SHAKSPERE 281 

Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, 
He mourns that clay so soon has glided by: 
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear 
That falls through the clear ether silently. 

/. Keats. 

A CONSOLATION 

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 

I all alone beweep my outcast state, 

And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, 

And look upon myself, and curse my fate; 

Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, 

Featured like him, like him with friends possest, 

Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope, 

With what I most enjoy contented least; 

Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, 

Haply I think on Thee — and then my state, 

Like to the lark at break of day arising 

From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; 

For thy sweet love rernember'd, such wealth brings 

That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 

W. Shakspere. 
TO HIS LOVE 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 
I see descriptions of the fairest wights, 
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme 
In praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights; 
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best 
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, 
I see their antique pen would have exprest 
Ev'n such a beauty as you master now. 
So all their praises are but prophecies 
Of this our time, all, you prefiguring; 
And for they look'd but with divining eyes, 
They had not skill enough your worth .to sing: 



282 POEMS IN SONNET FORM 

For we, which now behold these present days, 
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. 

W. Shakspere. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS 

When I consider how my light is spent 
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, 
And that one talent which is death to hide 
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent 
To serve therewith my Maker, and present 
My true account, lest He returning chide, — 
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied? 
I fondly ask: — But Patience, to prevent 
That murmur, soon replies; God doth not need 
Either man's work, or His own gifts: who best 
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best: His state 
Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed 
And post o'er land and ocean without rest: — 
They also serve who only stand and wait. 

/. Milton. 

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT 

Avenge, O Lord ! Thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones 

Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; 

Even them who kept Thy truth so pure of old 

When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, 

Forget not: In Thy book record their groans 

Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold 

Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that roll'd 

Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans 

The vales redoubled to the hills, and they 

To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow 

O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway 

The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow 

A hundred-fold, who, having learnt Thy way, 

Early may fly the Babylonian woe. 

/. Milton. 



JOHN KEATS 283 

ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802 

Two Voices are there; one is of the Sea, 

One of the Mountains; each a mighty voice: 

In both from age to age thou didst rejoice, 

They were thy chosen music, Liberty! 

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee 

Thou fought'st against him, — but hast vainly striven: 

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven, 

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee. 

— Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft; 

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left — 

For, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be 

That Mountain floods should thunder as before, 

And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore, 

And neither awful Voice be heard by Thee ! 

W. Wordsworth. 



BRIGHT STAR! WOULD I WERE STEADFAST 
AS THOU ART 

Brtght Star ! would I were steadfast as thou art — 

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, 

And watching, with eternal lids apart, 

Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite, 

The moving waters at their priestlike task 

Of pure ablution round earth's human shores, 

Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask 

Of snow upon the mountains and the moors: — 

No — yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, 

Pillow'd upon my fair Love's ripening breast 

To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, 

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest; 

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, 

And so live ever, — or else swoon to death. 

/. Keats. 



284 POEMS IN SONNET FORM 

THE TERROR OF DEATH 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, 
Before high-piled books, in charact'ry 
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen d grain; 
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, 
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, 
And think that I may never live to trace 
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance 
And when I feel, fair Creature of an hour ! 
That I shall never look upon thee more, 
Never have relish in the faery power 
Of unreflecting love — then on the shore 
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think 
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink. 

/. Keats. 

SLEEP 

Come, Sleep: O Sleep! the certain knot of peace, 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 
The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, 
Th' indifferent judge between the high and low; 
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease 
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw: 

make in me those civil wars to cease; 

1 will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 

Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, 
A chamber deaf of noise and blind of light, 
A rosy garland and a weary head: 
And if these things, as being thine in right, 
Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me, 
Livelier than elsewhere, Stella's image see. 

Sir P. Sidney. 



DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI 285 

TO SLEEP 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 
One after one-* the sound of rain, and bees 
Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, 
Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky: 
I've thought of all by turns, and yet do lie 
Sleepless; and soon the small birds' melodies 
Must hear, first utter'd from my orchard trees, 
And the first cuckoo's melancholy cry. 
Even thus last night, and two nights more I lay, 
And could not win thee, Sleep ! by any stealth : 
So do not let me wear to-night away: 
Without Thee what is all the morning's wealth? 
Come, blessed barrier between day and day 
Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! 

W. Wordsworth. 

SIBYLLA PALMIFERA 
(for a picture) 

Under the arch of Life, where love and death, 
Terror and mystery, guard her shrine, I saw 
Beauty enthroned; and though her gaze struck awe, 

I drew it in as simply as my breath. 

Hers are the eyes which, over and beneath, 

The sky and sea bend on thee, — which can draw, 
By sea or sky or woman, to one law, 

The allotted bondman of her palm and wreath. 

This is that Lady Beauty, in whose praise 

Thy voice and hand shake still, — long known to thee 
By flying hair and fluttering hem, — the beat 
Following her daily of thy heart and feet, 
How passionately and irretrievably, 

In what fond flight, how many ways and days ! 

D. G. Rossetti. 



286 POEMS IN SONNET FORM 

THE INNER VISION 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 

To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 

While a fair region round the traveller lies 

Which he forbears again to look upon; 

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 

The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 

Of meditation, slipping in between 

The beauty coming and the beauty gone. 

— If Thought and Love desert us, from that day 

Let us break off all commerce with the Muse: 

With Thought and Love companions of our way — 

Whate'er the senses take or may refuse, — 

The Mind's internal heaven shall shed her dews 

Of inspiration on the humblest lay. 

W. Wordsworth. 

THE HUMAN SEASONS 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year; 

There are four seasons in the mind of man: 

He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear 

Takes in all beauty with an easy span: 

He has his Summer, when luxuriously 

Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves 

To ruminate, and by such dreaming high 

Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves 

His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings 

He furleth close; contented so to look 

On mists in idleness — to let fair things 

Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook. 

He has his Winter too of pale misfeature, 

Or else he would forego his mortal nature. 

/. Keats. 



LORD BYRON 287 

OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT 

I met a traveller from an antique land 
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone 
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, 
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown 
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command 
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read 
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things, 
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed; 
And on the pedestal these words appear: 
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: 
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair ! ' 
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay 
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, 
The lone and level sands stretch far away. 

P. B. Shelley. 

ON THE CASTLE OF CHILLON 

Eterxal Spirit of the chainless Mind ! 

Brightest in dungeons, Liberty ! thou art, 

For there thy habitation is the heart — 

The heart which love of Thee alone can bind; 

And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd, 

To fetters, and the damp vault's dayless gloom, 

Their country conquers with their martyrdom, 

And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind. 

Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place 

And thy sad floor an altar, for 'twas trod, 

Until his very steps have left a trace 

Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod, 

By Bonnivard ! May none those marks efface ! 

For they appeal from tyranny to God. 

Lord Byron. 



288 POEMS IN SONNET FORM 

UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, 
SEPT. 3, 1802 

Earth has not anything to show more fair: 
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by 
A sight so touching in its majesty: 
This City now doth like a garment wear 
The beauty of the morning: silent, bare, 
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie 
Open unto the fields, and to the sky, — 
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. 
Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendour valley, rock, or hill; 
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep ! 
The river glideth at his own sweet will: 
Dear God ! the very houses seem asleep ; 
And all that mighty heart is lying still! 

W. Wordsworth. 

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC 

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 

And was the safeguard of the West; the worth 

Of Venice did not fall below her birth, 

Venice, the eldest child of Liberty. 

She was a maiden city, bright and free; 

No guile seduced, no force could violate; 

And when she took unto herself a mate, 

She must espouse the everlasting Sea. 

And what if she had seen those glories fade, 

Those titles vanish, and that strength decay, — 

Yet shall some tribute of regret be paid 

When her long life hath reach'd its final day: 

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade 

Of that which once was great is pass'd away. 

W. Wordsworth. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 289 

WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, 
CAMBRIDGE 

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense, 

With ill-match'd aims the Architect who plann'd 

(Albeit labouring for a scanty band 

Of white-robed Scholars only) this immense 

And glorious work of fine intelligence ! 

— Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore 

Of nicely-calculated less or more: — 

So deem'd the man who fashion'd for the sense 

These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof 

Self-poised, and scoop'd into ten thousand cells 

Where light and shade repose, where music dwells 

Lingering — and wandering on as loth to die; 

Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof 

That they were born for immortality. 

W. Wordsworth. 

DESIDERIA 

Surprized by joy — impatient as the wind — 

I turn'd to share the transport — Oh ! with whom 

But Thee — deep buried in the silent tomb, 

That spot which no vicissitude can find? 

Love, faithful love recaird thee to my mind — 

But how could I forget thee? Through what power 

Even for the least division of an hour 

Have I been so beguiled as to be blind 

To my most grievous loss ! — That thought's return 

Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore 

Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, 

Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more; 

That neither present time, nor years unborn 

Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. 

W. Wordsworth. 



290 POEMS IN SONNET FORM 

LONDON, 1802 

O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 

For comfort, being, as I am, opprest 

To think that now our life is only drest 

For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, 

Or groom ! — We must run glittering like a brook 

In the open sunshine, or we are unblest; 

The wealthiest man among us is the best: 

No grandeur now in nature or in book 

Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, 

This is idolatry; and these we adore: 

Plain living and high thinking are no more: 

The homely beauty of the good old cause 

Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, 

And pure religion breathing household laws. 

W. Wordsworth. 

THE SAME 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour : 
England has need of thee: she is a fen 
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen, 
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, 
Have forfeited their ancient English dower 
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men: 
Oh ! raise us up, return to us again ; 
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. 
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: 
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea, 
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free; 
So didst thou travel on life's common way 
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart 
The lowliest duties on herself did lay. 

W. Wordsworth. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 291 

WHEN I HAVE BORNE IN MEMORY WHAT 
HAS TAMED 

When I have borne in memory what has tamed 

Great Nations; how ennobling thoughts depart 

When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 

The student's bower for gold, — some fears unnamed 

I had, my Country ! — am I to be blamed ? 

Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art, 

Verily, in the bottom of my heart 

Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 

For dearly must we prize thee; we who find 

In thee a bulwark for the cause of men; 

And I by my affection was beguiled: 

What wonder if a Poet now and then, 

Among the many movements of his mind, 

Felt for thee as a lover or a child ! 

W. Wordsworth. 



POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

CONSTANCY 

Out upon it, I have loved 
Three whole days together; 

And am like to love three more, 
If it prove fair weather. 

Time shall moult away his wings, 

Ere he shall discover 
In the whole wide world again 

Such a constant lover. 

But the spite on't is, no praise 

Is due at all to me: 
Love with me had made no stays, 

Had it any been but she. 

Had it any been but she, 

And that very face, 
There had been at least ere this 

A dozen in her place. 

Sir J. Suckling. 

THE COURTIN'* 

God makes sech nights, all white an' still 

Fur 'z you can look or listen, 
Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, 

All silence an' all glisten. 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. 
292 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 293 

Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 

An' peeked in thru the winder, 
An' there sot Huldy all alone, 

'ith no one nigh to hender. 

A fireplace filled the room's one side 

With half a cord o' wood in — 
There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 

To bake ye to a puddin'. 

The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 

Towards the pootiest, bless her, 
An' leetle flames danced all about 

The chiny on the dresser. 

Agin the chimbly crook-necks hung, 

An' in amongst 'em rusted 
The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 

Fetched back f om Concord busted. 

The very room, coz she was in, 

Seemed warm f'om floor to ceilin', 
An' she looked full ez rosy agin 

Ez the apples she was peelin'. 

'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look 

On sech a blessed cretur; 
A dog-rose blushin' to a brook 

Ain't modester nor sweeter. 

He was six foot o' man, A 1, 

Clear grit an' human natur'; 
None couldn't quicker pitch a ton 

Nor dror a furrer straighter. 



294 POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 

He'd squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, 

Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
All is, he couldn't love 'em. 

But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
All crinkly like curled maple; 

The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 

She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 

Ez his'n in the choir; 
My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring 

She knowed the Lord was nigher. 

An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 

When her new meetin'-bunnet 
Felt somehow thru its crown a pair 

O' blue eyes sot upun it. 

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! 

She seemed to 've gut a new soul, 
For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, 

Down to her very shoe-sole. 

She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 

A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
All ways to once her feelin's flew 

Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 

He kin' o' Fitered on the mat, 

Some doubtfle o' the sekle; 
His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 

But her'n went pity Zekle. 



JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 295 

An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 

Ez though she wished him furder, 
An' on her apples kep' to work, 

Parin' away like murder. 

" You want to see my Pa, I s'pose? " 

" Wall ... no ... I come dasignin' " — 
" To see my Ma ? She's sprinklin' clo'es 

Agin to-morrer's i'ninV' 

To say why gals act so or so, 

Or dont, 'ould be presumin'; 
Mebby to mean yes an' say no 

Comes nateral to women. 

He stood a spell on one foot fust, 

Then stood a spell on t'other, 
An' on which one he felt the wust 

He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 

Says he, " I'd better call agin ; " 

Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" 
Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 

An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 

When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 

Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 

An' teary roun' the lashes. 

For she was jes' the quiet kind 

Whose naturs never vary, 
Like streams that keep a summer mind 

Snowhid in Jenooary. 



296 POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 
Too tight for all expressing 

Tell mother see how matters stood, 
An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 

Then her red come back like the tide 
Down to the bay o' Fundy, 

An' all I know is they was cried 
In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 

/. B. Lowell. 



THE LAST LEAF * 

I saw him once before, 
As he passed by the door, 

And again 
The pavement stones resound, 
As he totters o'er the ground 

With his cane. 

They say that in his prime, 
Ere the pruning-knife of Time 

Cut him down, 
Not a better man was found 
By the Crier on his round 



But now he walks the streets, 
And he looks at all he meets 

Sad and wan, 
And he shakes his feeble head, 
That it seems as if he said, 
" They are gone." 
* By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 297 

The mossy marbles rest 

On the lips that he has prest 

In their bloom, 
And the names he loved to hear 
Have been carved for many a year 

On the tomb. 

My grandmamma has said — 
Poor old lady, she is dead 

Long ago — 
That he had a Roman nose, 
And his cheek was like a rose 

In the snow; 

But now his nose is thin, 
And it rests upon his chin 

Like a staff, 
And a crook is in his back, 
And a melancholy crack 

In his laugh 

I know it is a sin 

For me to sit and grin 

At him here; 
But his old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 

Are so queer! 

And if I should live to be 
The last leaf upon the tree 

In the spring, 
Let them smile, as I do now, 
At the old forsaken bough 

Where I cling. 

O. W. Holmes. 



298 POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

A LETTER OF ADVICE 

FROM MISS MEDORA TREVILIAN, AT PADUA, TO MISS 
ARAMINTA VAVASOUR, IN LONDON 

You tell me you're promised a lover, 

My own Araminta, next week; 
Why cannot my fancy discover 

The hue of his coat and his cheek? 
Alas ! if he look like another, 

A vicar, a banker, a beau, 
Be deaf to your father and mother, 

My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

Miss Lane, at her Temple of Fashion, 

Taught us both how to sing and to speak, 
And we loved one another with passion, 

Before we had been there a week: 
You gave me a ring for a token; 

I wear it wherever I go; 
I gave you a chain, — is it broken? 

My own Araminta, say ' No I ' 

O think of our favourite cottage, 

And think of our dear Lalla Rookh ! 
How we shared with the milkmaids their pottage, 

And drank of the stream from the brook; 
How fondly our loving lips faltered, 

* What further can grandeur bestow ? ' 
My heart is the same; — is yours altered? 

My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

Remember the thrilling romances 

We read on the bank in the glen; 
Remember the suitors our fancies 

Would picture for both of us then. 



WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED 299 

They wore the red cross on their shoulder, 

They had vanquished and pardoned their foe — 

Sweet friend, are you wiser or colder? 
My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

You know, when Lord Rigmarole's carriage, 

Drove off with your cousin Justine, 
You wept, dearest girl, at the marriage, 

And whispered ' How base she has been ! ' 
You said you were sure it would kill you, 

If ever your husband looked so; 
And you will not apostatize, — will you? 

My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

When I heard I was going abroad, love, 

I thought I was going to die; 
We walked arm in arm to the road, love, 

We looked arm in arm to the sky; 
And I said ' When a foreign postilion 

Has hurried me off to the Po, 
Forget not Medora Trevilian: 

My own Araminta, say " No " ! ' 

We parted ! but sympathy's fetters 

Reach far over valley and hill; 
I muse o'er you exquisite letters, 

And feel that your heart is mine still; 
And he who would share it with me, love, — 

The richest of treasures below, — 
If he's not what Orlando should be, love, 

My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

If he wears a top-boot in his wooing, 

If he comes to you riding a cob, 
If he talks of his baking or brewing, 

If he puts up his feet on the hob, 



300 POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

If he ever drinks port after dinner, 
If his brow or his breeding is low, 

If he calls himself ' Thompson ' or ' Skinner, 
My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

If he studies the news in the papers 

"While you are preparing the tea, 
If he talks of the damps or the vapours 

While moonlight lies soft on the sea, 
If he's sleepy while you are capricious, 

If he has not a musical ' Oh ! ' 
If he does not call Werther delicious, — 

My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

If he ever sets foot in the city 

Among the stockbrokers and Jews, 
If he has not a heart full of pity, 

If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, 
If his lips are not redder than roses, 

If his hands are not whiter than snow, 
If he has not the model of noses, — 

My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

If he speaks of a tax or a duty, 

If he does not look grand on his knees, 
If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, 

Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees, 
If he dotes not on desolate towers, 

If he likes not to hear the blast blow, 
If he knows not the language of flowers, — 

My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

He must walk — like a god of old story 
Come down from the home of his rest; 

He must smile — like the sun in his glory 
On the buds he loves ever the best; 






SIR JOHN SUCKLING 301 

And oh ! from its ivory portal 

Like music his soft speech must flow ! — 

If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, 
My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

Don't listen to tales of his bounty, 

Don't hear what they say of his birth, 
Don't look at his seat in the county, 

Don't calculate what he is worth; 
But give him a theme to write verse on, 

And see if he turns out his toe; 
If he's only an excellent person, — 

My own Araminta, say ' No ! ' 

W. M. Praed. 



ENCOURAGEMENTS TO A LOVER 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover? 

Pry thee, why so pale? 
Will, if looking well can't move her, 

Looking ill prevail? 

Prythee, why so pale? 

Why so dull and mute, young sinner? 

Prythee, why so mute? 
Will, when speaking well can't win her, 

Saying nothing do't? 

Prythee, why so mute? 

Quit, quit, for shame ! this will not move, 

This cannot take her; 
If of herself she will not love, 

Nothing can make her: 

The D— 1 take her ! 

Sir J. Suckling. 



302 POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

COMPANIONS 

I know not of what we pondered 

Or made pretty pretence to talk, 
As, her hand within mine, we wandered 

Toward the pool by the lime tree walk, 
While the dew fell in showers from the passion 
flowers 

And the blush-rose bent on her stalk. 

I cannot recall her figure: 

Was it regal as Juno's own? 
Or only a trifle bigger 

Than the elves who surrounded the throne 
Of the Faery Queen, and are seen, I ween, 

By mortals in dreams alone? 

What her eyes were like, I know not: 
Perhaps they were blurred with tears; 

And perhaps in your skies there glow not 
(On the contrary) clearer spheres. 

No! as to her eyes, I am just as wise 
As you or the cat, my dears. 

Her teeth, I presume, were " pearly " : 
But which was she, brunette or blonde? 

Her hair, was it quaintly curly, 
Or as straight as a beadle's wand? 

That I failed to remark; — it was rather dark 
And shadowy round the pond. 

Then the hand that reposed so snugly 

In mine — was it plump or spare? 
Was the countenance fair or ugly? 

Nay, children, you have me there! 
My eyes were p'raps blurred; and besides I'd heard 

That it's horribly rude to stare. 



FREDERICK LOCKER SOS 

And I — was I brusque and surly? 

Or oppressively bland and fond? 
Was I partial to rising early? 

Or why did we twain abscond, 
All breakfastless too, from the public view 

To prowl by a misty pond? 

What passed, what was felt or spoken — 

Whether anything passed at all — 
And whether the heart was broken 

That beat under that shelt'ring shawl — 
(If shawl she had on, which I doubt) — has gone, 

Yes, gone from me past recall. 

Was I haply the lady's suitor? 

Or her uncle? I. can't make out — 
Ask your governess, dears, or tutor. 

For myself, I'm in helpless doubt 
As to why we were there, who on earth we were, 

And what this is all about. 

C. S. Calverley. 

MY MISTRESS'S BOOTS 

She has dancing eyes and ruby lips, 
Delightful boots — and away she skips. 

They nearly strike me dumb, — 
I tremble when they come 

Pit-a-pat: 
This palpitation means 
These boots are Geraldine's — 

Think of that ! 

O, where did hunter win 
So delicate a skin 

For her feet? 



304 POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

You lucky little kid, 
You perished, so you did, 
For my Sweet. 

The faery stitching gleams 
On the sides, and in the seams, 

And reveals 
That the Pixies were the wags 
Who tipt these funny tags, 

And these heels. 

What soles to charm an elf ! — 
Had Crusoe, sick of self, 

Chanced to view 
One printed near the tide, 
O, how hard he would have tried 

For the two ! 

For Gerry's debonair, 
And innocent and fair 

As a rose; 
She's an Angel in a frock, — 
She's an Angel with a clock 

To her hose! 

The simpletons who squeeze 
Their pretty toes to please 

Mandarins, 
Would positively flinch 
From venturing to pinch 

Geraldine's. 

Cinderella's lefts and rights 
To Geraldine's were frights: 
And I trow 



WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 305 

The damsel, deftly shod, 
Has dutifully trod 
Until now. 

Come, Gerry, since it suits 
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) 

These to don, 
Set your dainty hand awhile 
On my shoulders, Dear, and I'll 

Put them on. 

jP. Locker. 



THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR 

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars, 
And a ragged old jacket perfumed with cigars, 
Away from the world and its toils and its cares, 
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs. 

To mount to this realm is a care, to be sure, 
But the fire there is bright, and the air rather pure; 
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day 
Is grand through the chimney-pots over the way. 

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks 
With worthless old knicknacks and silly old books, 
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends, 
Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from 
friends. 

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked), 

Old rickety tables and chairs broken-backed; 

A twopenny treasury wondrous to see; 

What matter? 'tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 



306 POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

No better divan need the Sultan require, 
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire; 
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get 
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet. 

That praying-rug came from a Turkoman's camp; 
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp; 
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn: 
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon. 

Long long through the hours, and the night, and the chimes, 
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times; 
As we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie 
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, 
There's one that I love and I cherish the best: 
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair 
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair. 

'Tis a bandy-legg'd, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat, 
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet; 
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, 
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair. 

If chairs have but feeling, in holding such charms, 

A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms ! 

I looked, and I longed, and I wished in despair; 

I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair. 

It was but a moment she sat in this place, 

She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face ! 

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, 

And she sat there, and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair. 



OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 307 

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, 
In the silence of night as I sit here alone — 
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair— 
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair. 

She comes from the past and revisits my room; 
She looks as she did then, all beauty and bloom; 
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair, 
And yonder she sits in my eane-bottomed chair. 

W. M. Thackeray. 



CONTENTMENT* 

Little I ask; my wants are few; 

I only wish a hut of stone, 
(A very plain brown stone will do,) 

That I may call my own;— 
And close at hand is such a one, 
In yonder street that fronts the sun. 

Plain food is quite enough for me; 

Three courses are as good as ten; — 
If Nature can subsist on three, 

Thank Heaven for three. Amen! 
I always thought cold victual nice; — 
My choice would be vanilla-ice. 

I care not much for gold or land; — 
Give me a mortgage here and there, — 

Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, 
Or trifling railroad share, — 

I only ask that Fortune send 

A little more than I shall spend. 

* By permission of Houghton Mifflin Company. 



308 POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

Honors are silly toys, I know, 
And titles are but empty names; 

I would, perhaps, be Plenipo, — 
But only near St. James; 

I'm very sure I should not care 

To fill our Gubernator's chair. 

Jewels are baubles; 'tis a sin 

To care for such unfruitful things; — 

One good-sized diamond in a pin, — 
Some, not so large, in rings, — 

A ruby, and a pearl, or so, 

Will do for me; — I laugh at show. 

My dame should dress in cheap attire; 

(Good, heavy silks are never dear;) — 
I own perhaps I might desire 

Some shawls of true Cashmere, — 
Some marrowy crapes of China silk, 
Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk. 

I would not have the horse I drive 

So fast that folks must stop and stare; 

An easy gait — two forty-five — 
Suits me; I do not care; — 

Perhaps, for just a single spurt, 

Some seconds less would do no hurt. 

Of pictures, I should like to own 
Titians and Raphaels three or four, — 

I love so much their style and tone, — 
One Turner, and no more, 

(A landscape, — foreground golden dirt, — 

The sunshine painted with a squirt.) 

Of books but few, — some fifty score 
For daily use, and bound for wear; 



AUSTIN DOBSON 309 

The rest upon an upper floor; — 

Some little luxury there 
Of red morocco's gilded gleam 
And vellum rich as country cream. 

Busts, cameos, gems, — such things as these, 
Which others often show for pride, 

/ value for their power to please, 
And selfish churls deride; — 

One Stradivarius, I confess, 

Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess. 

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, 
Nor ape the glittering upstart fool; — 

Shall not carved tables serve my turn, 
But all must be of buhl? 

Give grasping pomp its double share, — 

I ask but one recumbent chair. 

Thus humble let me live and die, 
Nor long for Midas' golden touch; 

If Heaven more generous gifts deny, 
I shall not miss them much, — 

Too grateful for the blessing lent 

Of simple tastes and mind content ! 

O. W. Holmes. 

PROSE AND RHYME 

When- the roads are heavy with mire and rut, 
In November fogs, in December snows, 

When the North Wind howls, and the doors are shut, 
There is place and enough for the pains of prose; — 
But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, 

And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb, 
And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, 

Then hey ! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme ! 



310 POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

When the brain gets dry as an empty nut, 

When the reason stands on its squarest toes, 

When the mind (like a beard) has a " formal cut," 
There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;- 
But whenever the May-blood stirs and glows, 

And the young year draws to a " golden prime," — 
And Sir Romeo sticks in his ear a rose, 

Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme! 

In a theme where the thoughts have a pedant strut 
In a changing quarrel of " Ayes " and " Noes," 

In a starched procession of "If" and " But," 

There is place and enough for the pains of prose ;- 
But whenever a soft glance softer grows, 

And the light hours dance to the trysting-time, 
And the secret is told " that no one knows," 

Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme! 



Envoy 

In the work-a-day world, — for its needs and woes, 
There is place and enough for the pains of prose; 
But whenever the May-bells clash and chime, 
Then hey! — for the ripple of laughing rhyme! 

A. D&bson. 



WITH STRAWBERRIES 

With strawberries we filled a tray, 
And then we drove away, away 

Along the links beside the sea, 

Where wave and wind were light and free. 
And August felt as fresh as May, 



LEIGH HUNT 311 

And where the springy turf was gay 
With thyme and balm and many a spray 
Of wild roses, you tempted me 
With strawberries ! 

A shadowy sail, silent and grey, 
Stole like a ghost across the bay; 

But none could hear me ask my fee, 
And none could know what came to be. 
Can sweethearts all their thirst allay 
With strawberries? 

W. E. Henley. 



JENNY KISSED ME 

Jenny kissed me when we met, 

Jumping from the chair she sat in; 
Time, you thief, who love to get 

Sweets into your list, put that in: 
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad, 

Say that health and wealth have missed me, 
Say I'm growing old, but add, 
Jenny kissed me. 

L. Hunt. 



POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES 

I have had playirmtes, I have had companions, 

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; 

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I loved a Love once, fairest among women: 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man: 
Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; 
Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. 

Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, 
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, 
Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces, 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
And some are taken from me; all are departed; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 

C. Lamb. 

312 



THOMAS MOORE 313 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea ! 
And I would that my tongue could utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

O well for the fisherman's boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at play! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the bay! 

And the stately ships go on 

To their haven under the hill; 
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is still ! 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea ! 
But the tender grace of a day that is dead 

Will never come back to me. 

A. Tennyson. 

THE LIGHT OF OTHER DAYS 

Oft in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me: 

The smiles, the tears 

Of boyhood's years, 
The words of love then spoken; 

The eyes that shone, 

Now dimm'd and gone, 
The cheerful hearts now broken ! 



314 POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 

Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends so link'd together 
I've seen around me fall 
Like leaves in wintry weather, 
I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 
Whose lights are fled 
Whose garlands dead, 
And all but he departed! 
Thus in the stilly night 

Ere slumber's chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

T. Moore. 

PAST AND PRESENT 

I remember, I remember 
The house where I was born, 
The little window where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn; 
He never came a wink too soon 
Nor brought too long a day; 
But now, I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away. 

I remember, I remember 
The roses, red and white, 
The violets, and the lily-cups — 
Those flowers made of light! 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 315 

The lilacs where the robin built, 
And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birth-day, — 
The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as fresh 

To swallows on the wing; 

My spirit flew in feathers then 

That is so heavy now, 

And summer pools could hardly cool 

The fever on my brow. 

I remember, I remember 

The fir trees dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 

Were close against the sky: 

It was a childish ignorance, 

But now 'tis little joy 

To know I'm farther off from Heaven 

Than when I was a boy. 

T. Hood. 



THE FLIGHT OF LOVE 

When the lamp is shattered 
The light in the dust lies dead. — 

When the cloud is scattered, 
The rainbow's glory is shed. 

When the lute is broken, 
Sweet tones are remembered not; 

When the lips have spoken, 
Loved accents are soon forgot. 



316 POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

As music and splendour 
Survive not the lamp and the lute, 

The heart's echoes render 
No song when the spirit is mute — 

No song but sad dirges, 
Like the wind through a ruined cell, 

Or the mournful surges 
That ring the dead seaman's knell. 

When hearts have once mingled, 
Love .first leaves the well-built nest; 

The weak one is singled 
To endure what it once possessed. 

O Love, who bewailest 
The frailty of all things here, 

Why choose you the frailest 
For your cradle, your home, and your bier? 

Its passions will rock thee 
As the storms rock the ravens on high; 

Bright reason will mock thee 
Like the sun from a wintry sky. 

From thy nest every rafter 
Will rot, and thine eagle home 

Leave thee naked to laughter, 
When leaves fall and cold winds come. 

P. B. Shelley. 

THE JOURNEY ONWARDS 

As slow our ship her foamy track 
Against the wind was cleaving, 

Her trembling pennant still look'd back 
To that dear isle 'twas leaving. 

So loth we part from all we love, 
From all the links that bind us; 






LORD BYRON Si 7 

So turn our hearts, as on we rove, 
To those we've left behind us ! 

When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years 

We talk with joyous seeming — 
With smiles that might as well be tears, 

So faint, so sad their beaming; 
While memory brings us back again 

Each early tie that twined us, 
Oh, sweet's the cup that circles then 

To those we've left behind us ! 

And when, in other climes, we meet 

Some isle or vale enchanting, 
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet, 

And nought but love is wanting; 
We think how great had been our bliss 

If Heaven had but assign'd us 
To live and die in scenes like this, 

With some we've left behind us ! 

As travellers oft look back at eve 

When eastward darkly going, 
To gaze upon that light they leave 

Still faint behind them glowing, — 
So, when the close of pleasure's day 

To gloom hath near consign'd us, 
We turn to catch one fading ray 

Of joy that's left behind us. 

T. Moore. 

YOUTH AND AGE 

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull 
decav ; 



318 POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades 

so fast, 
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be 

past. 

Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness 
Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess: 
The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain 
The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch 
again. 

Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes 

down ; 
It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; 
That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, 
And though the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice 

appears. 

Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract 

the breast, 
Through midnight hours that yield no more their former 

hope of rest; 
'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, 
All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray 

beneath. 



Oh could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, 

Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd 

scene, — 
As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though 

they be, 
So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow 

to me! 

Lord Byron. 



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 319 

YOUTH AND AGE 

Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying, 
Where Hope clung- feeding, like a bee — 
Both were mine! Life went a-maying 
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
When I was young ! 
When I was young? — Ah, woful When ! 
Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! 
This breathing house not built with hands, 
This body that does me grievous wrong, 
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands v 

How lightly then it flash'd along: 
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, 
On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
That ask no aid of sail or oar, 
That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
When Youth and I lived in't together. 

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; 
Friendship is a sheltering tree; 
O ! the joys that came down shower-like, 
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 

Ere I was old ! 
Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere, 
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here ! 

Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
'Tis known that Thou and I were one, 
I'll think it but a fond conceit — 

It cannot be, that Thou art gone ! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd: — 
And thou were aye a masker bold ! 
What strange disguise hast now put on 
To make believe that Thou art gone? 

1 see these locks in silvery slips, 



320 POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

This drooping gait, this alter'd size: 
But Springtide blossoms on thy lips, 
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
Life is but Thought: so think I will 
That Youth and I are house-mates still. 

Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
But the tears of mournful eve ! 
Where no hope is, life's a warning 
That only serves to make us grieve 

When we are old: 
— That only serves to make us grieve 
With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
Like some poor nigh-related guest 
That may not rudely be dismist, 
Yet hath out-stay'd his welcome while, 
And tells the jest without the smile. 

S. T. Coleridq 



THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, 
Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years: 
Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard 
In the silence of morning the song of the bird. 

'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees 
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees; 
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide, 
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale 
Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail; 
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, 
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 321 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade, 
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade; 
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise, 
And the colours have all pass'd away from her eyes ! 

W. Wordsworth. 



SIMON LEE THE OLD HUNTSMAN 

Ik the sweet shire of Cardigan, 
Not far from pleasant Ivor Hall, 
An old man dwells, a little man, — 
'Tis said he once was tall. 
Full five-and-thirty years he lived 
A running huntsman merry; 
And still the centre of his cheek 
Is red as a ripe cherry. 

No man like him the horn could sound, 

And hill and valley rang with glee, 

When Echo bandied, round and round, 

The halloo of Simon Lee. 

In those proud days he little cared 

For husbandry or tillage; 

To blither tasks did Simon rouse 

The sleepers of the village. 

He all the country could outrun, 

Could leave both man and horse behind; 

And often, ere the chase was done, 

He reel'd and was stone-blind. 

And still there's something in the world 

At which his heart rejoices; 

For when the chiming hounds are out, 

He dearly loves their voices. 



322 TOEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

But oh the heavy change! — bereft 

Of health, strength, friends and kindred, see ! 

Old Simon to the world is left 

In liveried poverty: — 

His master's dead, and no one now 

Dwells in the Hall of Ivor; 

Men, dogs, and horses, all are dead; 

He is the sole survivor. 

And he is lean and he is sick, 

His body, dwindled and awry, 

Rests upon ankles swoln and thick; 

His legs are thin and dry. 

One prop he has, and only one, — 

His wife, an aged woman, 

Lives with him, near the waterfall, 

Upon the village common. 

Beside their moss-grown hut of clay, 
Not twenty paces from the door, 
A scrap of land they have, but they 
Are poorest of the poor. 
This scrap of land he from the heath 
Enclosed when he was stronger; 
But what to them avails the land 
Which he can till no longer? 

Oft, working by her husband's side, 

Ruth does what Simon cannot do; 

For she, with scanty cause for pride, 

Is stouter of the two. 

And, though you with your utmost skill 

From labour could not wean them, 

'Tis little, very little, all 

That they can do between them. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 323 

Few months of life has he in store 

As he to you will tell, 

For still, the more he works, the more 

Do his weak ankles swell. 

My gentle Reader, I perceive 

How patiently you've waited, 

And now I fear that you expect 

Some tale will be related. 

O Reader ! had you in your mind 

Such stores as silent thought can bring, 

gentle Reader ! you would find 
A tale in everything. 

What more I have to say is short, 
And you must kindly take it: 
It is no tale; but, should you think, 
Perhaps a tale you'll make it. 

One summer-day I chanced to see 

This old Man doing all he could 

To unearth the root of an old tree, 

A stump of rotten wood. 

The mattock totter'd in his hand; 

So vain was his endeavour 

That at the root of the old tree 

He might have work'd forever. 

' You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, 
Give me your tool,' to him I said; 
And at the word right gladly he 
Received my proffer'd aid. 

1 struck, and with a single blow 
The tangled root I sever'd, 

At which the poor old man so long 
And vainly had endeavour'd. 



324 POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

The tears into his eyes were brought, 
And thanks and praises seem'd to run 
So fast out of his heart, I thought 
They never would have done. 
— I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deed 
With coldness still returning; 
Alas! the gratitude of men 
Hath oftener left me mourning. 

W. Wordsworth. 

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear, 
The waves are dancing fast and bright, 
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear 
The purple noon's transparent might: 
The breath of the moist earth is light 
Around its unexpanded buds; 
Like many a voice of one delight — 
The Avinds', the birds', the ocean-floods' — 
The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's. 

I see the deep's untrampled floor 
With green and purple sea-weeds strown; 
I see the waves upon the shore 
Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown: 
I sit upon the sands alone; 
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean 
Is flashing round me, and a tone 
Arises from its measured motion — 
How sweet ! did any heart now share in my emotion. 

Alas ! I have nor hope nor health, 
Nor peace within nor calm around, 
Nor that content, surpassing wealth, 
The sage in meditation found, 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 325 

And walk'd with inward glory crown'd — 
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; 
Others I see whom these surround — 
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; 
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure. 

Yet now despair itself is mild 
Even as the winds and waters are; 
I could lie down like a tired child, 
And weep away the life of care 
Which I have borne, and yet must bear,- 
Till death like sleep might steal on me, 
And I might feel in the warm air 
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea 
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony. 

P. B. Shelley. 



A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN 

I dream'd that as I wander' d by the way 
Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring, 

And gentle odours led my steps astray, 
Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring 

Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay 
Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling 

Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, 

But kiss'd it and then fled, as Thou mightest in dream. 

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, 

Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, 
The constellated flower that never sets; 

Faint oxlips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth 
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets 
Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, 
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. 



326 POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, 

Green cow-bind and the moonlight-colour'd May, 

And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine 
Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; 

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine 

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; 

And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold, 

Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold. 

And nearer to the river's trembling edge 

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with 
white, 
And starry river-buds among the sedge, 

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, 
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge 

With moonlight beams of their own watery light; 
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green 
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen. 

Methought that of these visionary flowers 
I made a nosegay, bound in such a way 

That the same hues, which in their natural bowers 
Were mingled or opposed, the like array 

Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours 
Within my hand, — and then, elate and gay, 

I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come 

That I might there present it — O! to Whom? 

P. B. Shelley. 

HAPPY INSENSIBILITY 

In a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy tree, 
Thy branches ne'er remember 
Their green felicity: 



SIR WALTER SCOTT 327 

The north cannot undo them 
With a sleety whistle through them, 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighted December, 
Too happy, happy brook, 
Thy bubblings ne'er remember 
Apollo's summer look; 
But with a sweet forgetting 
They stay their crystal fretting, 
Never, never petting 
About the frozen time. 

Ah ! would 'twere so with many 
A gentle girl and boy ! 
But were there ever any 
Writhed not at passed joy? 
To know the change and feel it, 
When there is none to heal it 
Nor numbed sense to steal it — 
Was never said in rhyme. 

/. Keats. 



DATUR HOB A QUIETI 

The sun upon the lake is low, 

The wild birds hush their song, 
The hills have evening's deepest glow, 

Yet Leonard tarries long. 
Now all whom varied toil and care 

From home and love divide, 
In the calm sunset may repair 

Each to the loved one's side. 



328 POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

The noble dame, on turret high, 

Who waits her gallant knight, 
Looks to the western beam to spy 

The flash of armour bright. 
The village maid, with hand on brow 

The level ray to shade, 
Upon the footpath watches now 

For Colin's darkening plaid. 

Now to their mates the wild swans row, 

By day they swam apart, 
And to the thicket wanders slow 

The hind beside the hart. 
The woodlark at his partner's side 

Twitters his closing song — 
All meet whom day and care divide, 

But Leonard tarries long! 

Sir W. Scott. 



THE SOLDIER'S D RE A 31 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, 
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; 

And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, 
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die. 

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw 
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, 

At the dead of the night a sweet Vision I saw; 
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again. 

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array 
Far, far, I had roam'd on a desolate track: 

'Twas Autumn, — and sunshine arose on the way 

To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back. 






PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 329 

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft 

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; 

I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, 
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. 

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore 
From my home and my weeping friends never to part; 

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er, 
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. 

' Stay — stay with us ! — rest ! thou art weary and worn ! ' — 
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;— 

But sorrow return' d with the dawning of morn, 
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. 

T. Campbell. 

A DIRGE 

Rough wind, that moanest loud 

Grief too sad for song; 
Wild wind, when sullen cloud 

Knells all the night long; 
Sad storm whose tears are vain, 
Bare woods whose branches stain, 
Deep caves and dreary main, — 

Wail for the world's wrong! 

P. B. Shelley. 

THRENOS 

O World! O Life! O Time! 
On whose last steps I climb, 

Trembling at that where I had stood before; 
When will return the glory of your prime? 
No more — Oh, never more! 



330 POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

Out of the day and night 
A joy has taken flight: 

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar 
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight 
No more — Oh, never more! 

P. B. Shelley. 



MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE 

Music, when soft voices die, 
Vibrates in the memory — 
Odours, when sweet violets sicken, 
Live within the sense they quicken. 

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, 
Are heap'd for the beloved's bed; 
And so thy thoughts, when Thou art gone, 
Love itself shall slumber on. 

P. B. Shelley. 



POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

THE REALM OF FANCY 

Ever let the Fancy roam; " 
Pleasure never is at home: 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth; 
Then let winged Fancy wander 
Through the thought still spread beyond her: 
Open wide the mind's cage-door, 
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar. 
O sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Summer's joys are spoilt by use, 
And the enjoying of the Spring 
Fades as does its blossoming; 
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too, 
Blushing through the mist and dew, 
Cloys with tasting: What do then? 
Sit thee by the ingle, when 
The sear faggot blazes bright, 
Spirit of a winter's night; 
When the soundless earth is muffled, 
And the caked snow is shuffled 
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon; 
When the Night doth meet the Noon 
In a dark conspiracy 
To banish Even from her sky. 
Sit thee there, and send abroad, 
With a mind self-overaw'd, 
Fancy, high-commission'd: — send her! 
She has vassals to attend her: 
331 



3S2 POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

She will bring, in spite of frost, 

Beauties that the earth hath lost; 

She will bring thee, all together, 

All delights of summer weather; 

All the buds and bells of May 

From dewy sward or thorny spray; 

All the heaped Autumn's wealth, 

With a still, mysterious stealth: 

She will mix these pleasures up 

Like three fit wines in a cup, 

And thou shalt quaff it: — thou shalt hear 

Distant harvest-carols clear; 

Rustle of the reaped corn; 

Sweet birds antheming the morn: 

And, in the same moment — hark! 

'Tis the early April lark, 

Or the rooks, with busy caw, 

Foraging for sticks and straw. 

Thou shalt, at one glance, behold 

The daisy and the marigold; 

White-plumed lilies, and the first 

Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst; 

Shaded hyacinth, alway 

Sapphire queen of the mid-May; 

And every leaf, and every flower 

Pearled with the self-same shower. 

Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep 

Meagre from its celled sleep; 

And the snake all winter-thin 

Cast on sunny bank its skin; 

Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see 

Hatching in the hawthorn-tree, 

When the hen-bird's wing doth rest 

Quiet on her mossy nest; 

Then the hurry and alarm 

When the bee-hive casts its swarm; 



JOHN KEATS 353 

Acorns ripe down-pattering, 
While the autumn breezes sing. 

Oh, sweet Fancy ! let her loose ; 
Everything is spoilt by use: 
Where's the cheek that doth not fade, 
Too much gazed at? Where's the maid 
Whose lip mature is ever new? 
Where's the eye, however* blue, 
Doth not weary? Where's the face 
One would meet in every place? 
Where's the voice, however soft, 
One would hear so very oft? 
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth 
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth. 
Let then winged Fancy find 
Thee a mistress to thy mind: 
Dulcet-eyed as Ceres' daughter, 
Ere the God of Torment taught her 
How to frown and how to chide; 
With a waist and with a side 
White as Hebe's, when her zone 
Slipt its golden clasp, and down 
Fell her kirtle to her feet, 
While she held the goblet sweet, 
And Jove grew languid. — Break the mesh 
Of the Fancy's silken leash; 
Quickly break her prison-string, 
And such joys as these she'll bring. 
— Let the winged Fancy roam, 
Pleasure never is at home. 

/. Keats. 



S34> POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

KUBLA KHAN 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
A stately pleasure-dome decree: 
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
Through caverns measureless to man 

Down to a sunless sea. 
So twice five miles of fertile ground 
With walls and towers were girdled round: 
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
Where blossom' d many an incense-bearing tree; 
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! 
A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil 

seething, 
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
A mighty fountain momently was forced: 
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: 
And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
It flung up momently the sacred river. 
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man, 
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves; 






PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 335 

Where was heard the mingled measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 
It was a miracle of rare device, 
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice I 

A damsel with a dulcimer 

In a vision once I saw: 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she play'd, 

Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 

Her symphony and song, 
To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
That with music loud and long, 
I would build that dome in air, 
That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
And all who heard should see them there, 
And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 
And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 
And drank the milk of Paradise. 

S. T. Coleridge. 

THE POETS DREAM 

Ox a Poet's lips I slept 

Dreaming like a love-adept 

In the sound his breathing kept; 

Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses, 

But feeds on the aerial kisses 

Of shapes that haunt Thought's wildernesses. 

He will watch from dawn to gloom 

The lake-reflected sun illume 

The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom, 

Nor heed nor see what things they be — 



336 POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

But from these create he can 
Forms more real than living Man, 
Nurslings of Immortality ! 

P. B. Shelley. 

THE MERMAID TAVERN 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host's Canary wine? 
Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison? O generous food! 
Drest as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his Maid Marian, 
Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host's sign-board flew away 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An astrologer's old quill 
To a sheepskin gave the story, 
Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new-old sign 
Sipping beverage divine, 
And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 
What Elysium have ye known, 
Happy field or mossy cavern, 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 

/. Keats. 



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 337 

TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR 

Ariel to Miranda : — Take 

This slave of music, for the sake 

Of him, who is the slave of thee; 

And teach it all the harmony 

In which thou canst, and only thou, 

Make the delighted spirit glow, 

Till joy denies itself again 

And, too intense, is turn'd to pain. 

For by permission and command 

Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, 

Poor Ariel sends this silent token 

Of more than ever can be spoken; 

Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who 

From life to life must still pursue 

Your happiness, for thus alone 

Can Ariel ever find his own. 

From Prospero's enchanted cell, 

As the mighty verses tell, 

To the throne of Naples he 

Lit you o'er the trackless sea, 

Flitting on, your prow before, 

Like a living meteor. 

When you die, the silent Moon 

In her interlunar swoon 

Is not sadder in her cell 

Than deserted Ariel: — 

When you live again on earth, 

Like an unseen Star of birth 

Ariel guides you o'er the sea 

Of life from your nativity: — 

Many changes have been run 

Since Ferdinand and you begun 

Your course of love, and Ariel still 

Has track'd your steps and served your will. 



338 POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

Now in humbler, happier lot, 
This is all remember'd not; 
And now, alas ! the poor Sprite is 
Imprison'd for some fault of his 
In a body like a grave — 
From you he only dares to crave, 
For his service and his sorrow 
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow. 

The artist who this idol wrought 

To echo all harmonious thought, 

Fell'd a tree, while on the steep 

The woods were in their winter sleep, 

Rock'd in that repose divine 

On the wind-swept Apennine; 

And dreaming, some of Autumn past, 

And some of Spring approaching fast, 

And some of April buds and showers, 

And some of songs in July bowers, 

And all of love: And so this tree, — ■ 

Oh that such our death may be ! — 

Died in sleep, and felt no pain, 

To live in happier form again: 

From which, beneath heaven's fairest star, 

The artist wrought this loved Guitar; 

And taught it justly to reply 

To all who questioned skilfully 

In language gentle as thine own; 

Whispering in enamour'd tone 

Sweet oracles of woods and dells, 

And summer winds in sylvan cells: 

— For it had learnt all harmonies 

Of the plains and of the skies, 

Of the forests and the mountains, 

And the many-voiced fountains; 

The clearest echoes of the hills, 



JOHN MILTON S39 

The softest notes of falling rills, 
The melodies of birds and bees, 
The murmuring of summer seas, 
And pattering rain, and breathing dew, 
And airs of evening; and it knew 
That seldom-heard mysterious sound 
Which, driven on its diurnal round, 
As it floats through boundless day, 
Our world enkindles on its way: 
— All this it knows, but will not tell 
To those who cannot question well 
The Spirit that inhabits it; 
It talks according to the wit 
Of its companions; and no more 
Is heard than has been felt before 
By those who tempt it to betray 
These secrets of an elder day. 
But, sweetly as its answers will 
Flatter hands of perfect skill, 
It keeps its highest holiest tone 
For our beloved Friend alone. 

P. B. Shelley. 

U ALLEGRO 

Hexce, loathed Melancholy, 

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born 
In Stygian cave forlorn 

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy ! 
Find out some uncouth cell 

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings 
And the night-raven sings; 

There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks 
As ragged as thy locks, 

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 



340 POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

But come, thou Goddess fair and free, 
In heaven yclept Euphrosyne, 
And by men, heart-easing Mirth, 
Whom lovely Venus at a birth 
With two sister Graces more 
To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; 
Or whether (as some sager sing) 
The frolic wind that breathes the spring 
Zephyr, with Aurora playing, 
As he met her once a-Maying — 
There on beds of violets blue 
And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew 
Fill'd her with thee, a daughter fair, 
So buxom, blithe, and debonair; 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee 
Jest, and youthful jollity, 
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles, 
Nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles 
Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, 
And love to live in dimple sleek; 
Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 
And Laughter holding both his sides: — 
Come, and trip it as you go 
On the light fantastic toe; 
And in thy right hand lead with thee 
The mountain-nymph, sweet Liberty; 
And if I give thee honour due 
Mirth, admit me of thy crew, 
To live with her, and live with thee 
In unreproved pleasures free; 
To hear the lark begin his flight 
And singing startle the dull night 
From his watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise ; 
Then to come, in spite of sorrow, 
And at my window bid good-morrow 



JOHN MILTON 341 

Through the sweetbriar, or the vine, 
Or the twisted eglantine: 
While the cock with lively din 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
And to the stack, or the barn-door, 
Stoutly struts his dames before; 
Oft listening how the hounds and horn 
Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, 
From the side of some hoar hill, 
Through the high wood echoing shrill: 
Sometime walking, not unseen, 
By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, 
Right against the eastern gate 
Where the great Sun begins his state 
Robed in flames and amber light, 
The clouds in thousand liveries dight; 
While the ploughman, near at hand, 
Whistles o'er the furrow'd land, 
And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
And the mower whets his scythe, 
And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the hawthorn in the dale. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 
Whilst the landscape round it measures; 
Russet lawns, and fallows gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray; 
Mountains, on whose barren breast 
The labouring clouds do often rest; 
Meadows trim with daisies pied, 
Shallow brooks, and rivers wide; 
Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosom'd high in tufted trees, 
Where perhaps some Beauty lies, 
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 

Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes 
From betwixt two aged oaks, 



312 POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis, met, 
Are at their savoury dinner set 
Of herbs, and other country messes 
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; 
And then in haste her bower she leaves 
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; 
Or, if the earlier season lead, 
To the tann'd haycock in the mead. 

Sometimes with secure delight 
The upland hamlets will invite, 
When the merry bells ring round, 
And the jocund rebecks sound 
To many a youth and many a maid, 
Dancing in the chequer'd shade; 
And young and old come forth to play 
On a sun-shine holyday, 
Till the live-long day-light fail: 
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, 
With stories told of many a feat, 
How Faery Mab the junkets eat: — 
She was pinch'd, and pull'd, she said; 
And he, by Friar's lantern led; 
Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat 
To earn his cream-bowl duly set, 
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, 
His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the corn 
That ten day-labourers could not end; 
Then lies him down the lubber fiend, 
And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, 
Basks at the fire his hairy strength; 
And crop-full out of doors he flings, 
Ere the first cock his matin rings. 

Thus done the tales, to bed they creep, 
By whispering winds soon lull'd asleep. 

Tower'd cities please us then 
And the busy hum of men, 



JOHN MILTON 343 

Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 

In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, 

With store of ladies, whose bright eyes 

Rain influence, and judge the prize 

Of wit or arms, while both contend 

To win her grace, whom all commend. 

There let Hymen oft appear 

In saffron robe, with taper clear, 

And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 

With mask, and antique pageantry; 

Such sights as youthful poets dream 

On summer eves by haunted stream. 

Then to the well-trod stage anon, 

If Jonson's learned sock be on, 

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, 

Warble his native wood-notes wild. 

And ever against eating cares 
Lap me in soft Lydian airs 
Married to immortal verse, 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
The melting voice through mazes running, 
Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony; 
That Orpheus' self may heave his head 
From golden slumber, on a bed 
Of heap'd Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the ear 
Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regain'd Eurydice. 
These delights if thou canst give 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

/. Milton. 



344 POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

IL PENSEROSO 

Hence, vain deluding Joys, 

The brood of Folly without father bred! 
How little you bestead 

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys ! 
Dwell in some idle brain, 

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess 
As thick and numberless 

As the gay motes that people the sunbeams, 
Or likest hovering dreams, 

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train. 

But hail, thou goddess sage and holy, 
Hail, divinest Melancholy ! 
Whose saintly visage is too bright 
To hit the sense of human sight, 
And therefore to our weaker view 
O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; 
Black, but such as in esteem 
Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, 
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that strove 
To set her beauty's praise above 
The sea-nymphs, and their powers offended: 
Yet thou art higher far descended: 
Thee bright-hair'd Vesta, long of yore, 
To solitary Saturn bore; 
His daughter she; in Saturn's reign 
Such mixture was not held a stain: 
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades 
He met her, and in secret shades 
Of woody Ida's inmost grove, 
While yet there was no fear of Jove. 

Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure, 
Sober, steadfast, and demure, 
All in a robe of darkest grain 
Flowing with majestic train. 






JOHN MILTON 345 

And sable stole of Cipres lawn 

Over thy decent shoulders drawn: 

Come, but keep thy wonted state, 

With even step, and musing gait, 

And looks commercing with the skies, 

Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes : 

There, held in holy passion still, 

Forget thyself to marble, till 

With a sad leaden downward cast 

Thou fix them on the earth as fast: 

And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, 

Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, 

And hears the Muses in a ring 

Aye round about Jove's altar sing: 

And add to these retired Leisure 

That in trim gardens takes his pleasure: — 

But first and chiefest, with thee bring 

Him that yon soars on golden wing 

Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, 

The cherub Contemplation; 

And the mute Silence hist along, 

'Less Philomel will deign a song 

In her sweetest saddest plight 

Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, 

While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 

Gently o'er the accustom'd oak. 

— Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, 

Most musical, most melancholy ! 

Thee, chauntress, oft, the woods among 

I woo, to hear thy even-song; 

And missing thee, I walk unseen 

On the dry smooth-shaven green, 

To behold the wandering Moon 

Riding near her highest noon, 

Like one that had been led astray 

Through the heaven's wide pathless way, 



346 POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

And oft, as if her head she bow'd, 
Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 

Oft, on a plat of rising ground 
I hear the far-off Curfeu sound 
Over some wide-water'd shore, 
Swinging slow with sullen roar: 
Or, if the air will not permit, 
Some still removed place will fit, 
Where glowing embers through the room 
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom; 
Far from all resort of mirth, 
Save the cricket on the hearth, 
Or the bellman's drowsy charm 
To bless the doors from nightly harm. 

Or let my lamp at midnight hour 
Be seen in some high lonely tower, 
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear 
With thrice-great Hermes, or unsphere 
The spirit of Plato, to unfold 
What worlds or what vast regions hold 
The immortal mind, that hath forsook 
Her mansion in this fleshly nook: 
And of those demons that are found 
In fire, air, flood, or under ground, 
Whose power hath a true consent 
With planet, or with element. 
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy 
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by, 
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, 
Or the tale of Troy divine; 
Or what (though rare) of later age 
Ennobled hath the buskin'd stage. 

But, O sad Virgin, that thy power 
Might raise Musaeus from his bower, 
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing 
Such notes as, warbled to the string, 



JOHN MILTON 347 

Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek 

And made Hell grant what Love did seek ! 

Or call up him that left half-told 

The story of Cambuscan bold, 

Of Camball, and of Algarsife, 

And who had Canace to wife 

That own'd the virtuous ring and glass; 

And of the wondrous horse of brass 

On which the Tartar king did ride: 

And if aught else great bards beside 

In sage and solemn tunes have sung 

Of turneys, and of trophies hung, 

Of forests, and enchantments drear, 

Where more is meant than meets the ear. 

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, 
Till civil-suited Morn appear, 
Not trick'd and frounced as she was wont 
With the Attic Boy to hunt, 
But kercheft in a comely cloud 
While rocking winds are piping loud, 
Or usher'd with a shower still, 
When the gust hath blown his fill, 
Ending on the rustling leaves 
With minute drops from off the eaves. 
And when the sun begins to fling 
His flaring beams, me, goddess, bring 
To arched walks of twilight groves, 
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves, 
Of pine, or monumental oak, 
Where the rude axe, with heaved stroke, 
Was never heard the nymphs to daunt 
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. 
There in close covert by some brook 
Where no profaner eye may look, 
Hide me from day's garish eye, 
While the bee with honey'd thigh 



348 POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

That at her flowery work doth sing, 

And the waters murmuring, 

With such consort as they keep 

Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep; 

And let some strange mysterious dream 

Wave at his wings in airy stream 

Of lively portraiture display'd, 

Softly on my eyelids laid: 

And, as I wake, sweet music breathe 

Above, about, or underneath, 

Sent by some Spirit to mortals good, 

Or the unseen Genius of the wood. 

But let my due feet never fail 
To walk the studious cloister's pale, 
And love the high-embowed roof, 
With antique pillars massy proof, 
And storied windows richly dight 
Casting a dim religious light. 
There let the pealing organ blow 
To the full-voiced choir below 
In service high and anthems clear, 
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, 
Dissolve me into ecstasies, 
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 

And may at last my weary age 
Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
. The hairy gown and mossy cell 
Where I may sit and rightly spell 
Of every star that heaven doth shew, 
And every herb that sips the dew; 
Till old experience do attain 
To something like prophetic strain. 

These pleasures, Melancholy, give, 
And I with thee will choose to live. 

J. Milton. 






POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

ODE TO AUTUMN 

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, 

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; 

Conspiring with him how to load and bless 

With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; 

To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, 

And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 

To swell the ground, and plump the hazel shells 

With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 

And still more, later flowers for the bees, 

Until they think warm days will never cease; 

For Summer has o'erbrimm'd their clammy cells. 

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? 
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find 
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, 
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; 
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, 
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook 
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: 
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep 
Steady thy laden head across a brook; 
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, 
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. 

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? 
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, — 
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day 
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; 
349 



350 POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft 

The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft; 

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 

/. Keats. 

ODE TO WINTER 

Germany, December, 1800 

When first the fiery-mantled Sun 
His heavenly race began to run, 
Round the earth and ocean blue 
His children four the Seasons flew. 

First, in green apparel dancing, 
The young Spring smiled with angel-grace; 

Rosy Summer next advancing, 
Rush'd into her sire's embrace — 
Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep 

For ever nearest to his smiles, 
On Calpe's olive-shaded steep 

Or India's citron-cover'd isles: 
More remote, and buxom-brown, 

The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne: 
A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, 

A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 

But howling Winter fled afar 
To hills that prop the polar star; 
And loves on deer-borne car to ride 
With barren darkness by his side, 
Round the shore where loud Lofoden 
Whirls to death the roaring whale, 



THOMAS CAMPBELL 351 

Round the hall where Runic Odin 

Howls his war-song to the gale; 
Save when adown the ravaged globe 

He travels on his native storm, 
Deflowering Nature's grassy robe 

And trampling on her faded form: — 
Till light's returning Lord assume 

The shaft that drives him to his polar field, 
Of power to pierce his raven plume 

And crystal-cover'd shield. 

Oh, sire of storms ! whose savage ear 
The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
When Frenzy with her blood-shot eye 
Implores thy dreadful deity — 
Archangel ! Power of desolation ! 

Fast descending as thou art, 
Say, hath mortal invocation 

Spells to touch thy stony heart? 
Then, sullen Winter ! hear my prayer. 
And gently rule the ruin'd year; 
Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare 
Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear: 
To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 

Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lend, 
And gently on the orphan head 

Of Innocence descend. 

But chiefly spare, O king of clouds ! 
The sailor on his airy shrouds, 
When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, 
And spectres walk along the deep. 
Milder yet thy snowy breezes 

Pour on yonder tented shores, 
Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, 

Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 



352 POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

Oh, winds of Winter ! list ye there 

To many a deep and dying groan? 
Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, 

At shrieks and" thunders louder than your own? 
Alas ! ev'n your unhallow'd breath 

May spare the victim fallen low; 
But Man will ask no truce to death, — 

No bounds to human woe. 

T. Campbell 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, 
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead 
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, 
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, 
Pestilence-stricken multitudes ! O thou 
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed 
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, 
Each like a corpse within its grave, until 
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow 
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill 
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) 
With living hues and odours plain and hill: 
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; 
Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, oh hear! 

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's com- 
motion, 
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, 
Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, 
Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread 
On the blue surface of thine airy surge, 
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head 
Of some fierce Maenad, ev'n from the dim verge 
Of the horizon to the zenith's height — 






PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 353 

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge 

Of the dying year, to which this closing night 

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, 

Vaulted with all thy congregated might 

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere 

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: Oh hear! 

Thou who didst waken from his summer-dreams 
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, 
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams, 
Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, 
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers, 
Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 
All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers 
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou 
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below 
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear 
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know 
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear 
And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh hear! 

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; 
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; 
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share 
The impulse of thy strength, only less free 
Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even 
I were as in my boyhood, and could be 
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, 
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed 
Scarce seem'd a vision, — I would ne'er have striven 
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. 
Oh ! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud ! 
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! 
A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd 
One too like thee — tameless, and swift, and proud. 



.354 POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: 
What if my leaves are falling like its own ! 
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies 
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, 
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, 
My spirit ! be thou me, impetuous one ! 
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, 
Like wither'd leaves, to quicken a new birth; 
And, by the incantation of this verse, 
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth 
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! 
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth 
The trumpet of a prophecy ! O Wind, 
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? 

P. B. Shelley. 



ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains 

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, 
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains 

One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 
'Tis not through envj^ of thy happy lot, 
But being too happy in thine happiness, — 
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, 
In some melodious plot 
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, 
Singest of summer in full-throated ease. 

O, for a draught of vintage ! that hath been 
Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth, 

Tasting of Flora and the country green, 

Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! 



JOHN KEATS 355 

O for a beaker full of the warm South, 
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, 

With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, 
And purple-stained mouth; 
That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, 

And with thee fade away into the forest dim: 



Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget 

What thou among the leaves hast never known, 
The weariness, the fever, and the fret 

Here, where men sit and hear each other groan ; 
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies, 
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow 
And leaden-eyed despairs; 
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, 
Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. 



Away ! away ! for I will fly to thee, 

Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, 
But on the viewless wings of Poesy, 

Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: 
Already with thee! tender is the night, 

And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, 
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; 
But here there is no light, 
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown 

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. 



I cannot see what flowers are at my feet 

Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, 

But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet 
Wherewith the seasonable month endows 



356 POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; 
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; 
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; 
And mid-May's eldest child, 
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, 

The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. 



Darkling I listen; and for many a time 

I have been half in love with easeful Death, 
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme, 

To take into the air my quiet breath; 
Now more than ever seems it rich to die, 
To cease upon the midnight with no pain, 
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad 
In such an ecstasy ! 
Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain- 
To thy high requiem become a sod. 



Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird ! 

No hungry generations tread thee down; 
The voice I hear this passing night was heard 

In ancient days by emperor and clown: 
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path 

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, 
She stood in tears amid the alien corn; 
The same that oft-times hath 
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam 

Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. 

Forlorn ! the very word is like a bell 

To toll me back from thee to my sole self! 

Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well 
As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. 






JOHN KEATS 357 

Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades 
Past the near meadows, over the still stream, 
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep 
In the next valley-glades : 
Was it a vision, or a waking dream? 

Fled is that music :— Do I wake or sleep? 

J. Keats. 

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 

Thou still unravistTd bride of quietness, 

Thou foster-child of silence and slow time, 
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express 

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape 

Of deities or mortals, or of both, 
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? 
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? 

What mad purusit? What struggle to escape? 
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? 

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 

Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; 
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, 

Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: 
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave 

Thy song nor ever can those trees be bare; 
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, 
Though winning near the goal — yet, do not grieve; 

She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, 
Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair ! 

Ah, happy, happy boughs ! that cannot shed 
Your leaves nor ever bid the Spring adieu; 

And, happy melodist, unwearied, 
Forever piping songs forever new; 



■58 POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

More happy love ! more happy, happy love ! 
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 
For ever panting, and for ever young; 
All breathing human passion far above, 

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and eloy'd, 
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. 

Who are these coming to the sacrifice? 

To what green altar, O mysterious priest, 
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, 

And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? 
What little town by river or sea shore, 

Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, 
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? 
^nd, little town, thy streets for evermore 

Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. 

O Attic shape ! Fair attitude ! with brede 

Of marble men and maidens overwrought, 
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 

Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought 
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 
When old age shall this generation waste, 
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe 
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, 
' Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' — that is all 
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. 

J. Keats. 

ODE TO DUTY 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God! 
O Duty ! if that name thou love 
Who art a light to guide, a rod 
To check the erring, and reprove; 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 359 

Thou who art victory and law 
When empty terrors overawe; 
From vain temptations dost set free, 
And calnvst the weary strife of frail humanity! 

There are who ask not if thine eye 
Be on them; who, in love and truth 
Where no misgiving is, rely 
L T pon the genial sense of youth: 
Glad hearts ! without reproach or blot, 
Who do thy work, and know it not: 
Oh ! if through confidence misplaced 
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power ! around 
them cast. 

Serene will be our days and bright 
And happy will our nature be 
When love is an unerring light, 
And joy its own security. 
And they a blissful course may hold 
Ev'n now, who, not unwisely bold, 
Live in the spirit of this creed; 
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need. 

I, loving freedom, and untried, 
No sport of every random gust, 
Yet being to myself a guide, 
Too blindly have reposed my trust: 
And oft, when in my heart was heard 
Thy timely mandate, I deferr'd 
The task, in smoother walks to stray; 
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may. 

Through no disturbance of my soul 
Or strong compunction in me wrought, 
I supplicate for thy control, 
But in the quietness of thought: 



360 POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

Me this uncharter'd freedom tires; 
I feel the weight of chance-desires: 
My hopes no more must change their name; 
I long for a repose that ever is the same. 

Stern Lawgiver ! yet thou dost wear 
The Godhead's most benignant grace; 
Nor know we anything so fair 
As is the smile upon thy face: 
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds, 
And fragrance in thy footing treads; 
Thou dost preserve the Stars from wrong; 
And the most ancient Heavens, through Thee, are 
fresh and strong. 

To humbler functions, awful Power ! 
I call thee: I myself commend 
Unto thy guidance from this hour; 
Oh let my weakness have an end! 
Give unto me, made lowly wise, 
The spirit of self-sacrifice ; 
The confidence of reason give; 
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live. 

W. Wordsworth. 



ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM 
RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, 
The earth, and every common sight 
To me did seem 
Apparell'd in celestial light, 
The glory and the freshness of a dream. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 361 

It is not now as it hath been of yore; — 
Turn wheresoe'er I may, 
By night or day, 
The things which I have seen I now can see no more. 



The rainbow comes and goes, 

And lovely is the rose; 

The moon doth with delight 
Look round her when the heavens are bare; 

Waters on a starry night 

Are beautiful and fair; 
The sunshine is a glorious birth; 
But yet I know, where'er I go, 
That there hath past away a glory from the earth. 



Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song, 
And while the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound, 
To me alone there came a thought of grief: 
A timely utterance gave that thought relief, 

And I again am strong. 
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep; — 
No more shall grief of mine the season wrong: 
I hear the echoes through the mountains throng, 
The winds come to me from the fields of sleep, 
And all the earth is gay; 
Land and sea 
Give themselves up to jollity, 

And with the heart of May 
Doth every beast keep holiday; — 
Thou child of joy 
Shout round me, let me hear thy shouts, thou happy 
Shepherd-boy ! 



362 POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

Ye blessed Creatures, I have heard the call 

Ye to each other make; I see 
The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; 
My heart is at your festival, 
My head hath its coronal, 
The fulness of your bliss, I feel — I feel it all. 
Oh evil day ! if I were sullen 
While Earth herself is adorning 

This sweet May morning; 
And the children are culling 

On every side 
In a thousand valleys far and wide, 
Fresh flowers; while the sun shines warm 
And the babe leaps up on his mother's arm: — 
I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! 
— But there's a tree, of many, one, 
A single field which I have look'd upon, 
Both of them speak of something that is gone: 
The pansy at my feet 
Doth the same tale repeat: 
Whither is fled the visionary gleam? 
Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; 
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, 
Hath had elsewhere its setting 

And cometh from afar; 
Not in entire forget fulness, 
And not in utter nakedness, 
But trailing clouds of glory do we come 

From God, who is our home: 
Heaven lies about us in our infancy! 
Shades of the prison-house begin to close 

Upon the growing Boy, 
But he beholds the light, and whence it flows, 
He sees it in his joy; 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 363 

The Youth, who daily farther from the east 
Must travel, still is Nature's priest, 

And by the vision splendid 

Is on his way attended; 
At length the Man perceives it die away, 
And fade into the light of common day. 

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own; 
Yearnings she hath in her own natural kind, 
And, even with something of a mother's mind 

And no unworthy aim, 
The homely nurse doth all she can 
To make her foster-child, her inmate, Man, 

Forget the glories he hath known, 
And that imperial palace whence he came. 

Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 
A six years' darling of a pigmy size ! 
See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, 
Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, 
With light upon him from his father's eyes ! 
See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, 
Some fragment from his dream of human life, 
Shaped by himself with newly-learned art; 

A wedding or a festival, 

A mourning or a funeral; 

And this hath now his heart, 

And unto this he frames his song: 
Then will he fit his tongue 
To dialogues of business, love, or strife; 

But it will not be long 

Ere this be thrown aside, 

And with new joy and pride 
The little actor cons another part; 
Filling from time to time his ' humorous stage ' 



364 POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

With all the Persons, down to palsied Age, 
That life brings with her in her equipage; 
As if his whole vocation 
Were endless imitation. 



Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 

Thy soul's immensity; 
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep 
Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind, 
That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, 
Haunted forever by the eternal Mind, — 

Mighty Prophet ! Seer blest ! 

On whom those truths do rest 
Which we are toiling all our lives to find, 
In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; 
Thou, over whom thy Immortality 
Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave, 
A Presence which is not to be put by; 
Thou little child, yet glorious in the might 
Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, 
Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke 
The years to bring the inevitable yoke, 
Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 
Full soon thy soul shall have her earthly freight, 
And custom lie upon thee with a weight 
Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! 



O joy! that in our embers 
Is something that doth live, 
That Nature yet remembers 
What was so fugitive! 
The thought of our past years in me doth breed 
Perpetual benediction: not indeed 
For that which is most worthy to be blest, 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 365 

Delight and liberty, the simple creed 
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, 
With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: — 
— Not for these I raise 
The song of thanks and praise; 
But for those obstinate questionings 
Of sense and outward things, 
Fallings from us, vanishings; 
Blank misgivings of a creature 
Moving about in worlds not realized, 
High instincts, before which our mortal nature 
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprized: 
But for those first affections, 
Those shadowy recollections, 

Which, be they what they may, 
Are yet the fountain-light of all our day, 
Are yet a master-light of all our seeing; 

Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make 
Our noisy years seem moments in the being 
Of the eternal Silence: truths that wake, 

To perish never; 
Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, 

Nor man nor boy 
Nor all that is at enmity with joy, 
Can utterly abolish or destroy! 

Hence, in a season of calm weather 
Though inland far we be, 
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea 
Which brought us hither; 
Can in a moment travel thither — 
And see the children sport upon the shore, 
And hear the mighty waters rolling evermore. 

Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song! 
And let the young lambs bound 
As to the tabor's sound! 



366 POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

We, in thought, will join your throng 
Ye that pipe and ye that play, 
Ye that through your hearts to-day 
Feel the gladness of the May! 

What though the radiance which was once so bright 

Be now forever taken from my sight, 

Though nothing can bring back the hour 

Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower; 
We will grieve not, rather find 
Strength in what remains behind; 
In the primal sympathy 
Which having been must ever be; 
In the soothing thoughts that spring 
Out of human suffering; 
In the faith that looks through death, 

In years that bring the philosophic mind. 



And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, 

Forbode not any severing of our loves ! 

Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might; 

I only have relinquish'd one delight 

To live beneath your more habitual sway: 

I love the brooks which down their channels fret 

Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they; 

The innocent brightness of a new-born day 

Is lovely yet; 
The clouds that gather round the setting sun 
Do take a sober colouring from an eye 
That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality; 
Another race hath been, and other palms are won. 
Thanks to the human heart by which we live, 
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears, 
To me the meanest flower that blows can give 
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears. 

W. Wordsworth. 



NOTES 



NOTES 



OLD BALLADS 

SIR PATRICK SPENS 
(Page 3) 

It is thought that this ballad may have had historical foun- 
dation in a journey taken to Norway, in the thirteenth cen- 
tury, to bring home a princess to her Scottish throne. But 
whether this is true or not, the present form of the ballad 
is due to the hands through which it has passed, and to them 
we owe the fine vigor of its tone and the simplicity of its 
suggested tragedy. The only words which may offer diffi- 
culty to the reader are as follows: 

braid: broad sltoone: shoes 

laith: loath aboone: above (them) 

JOHNIE ARMSTRONG 

(Page 4) 

We have record of a historical John Armstrong, M r ho lived 
a free and lawless life on the Scottish border until his king, 
probably by treacherous means, brought about his death. 
The signs of traditional ballad treatment are very evident. 
Not only are the dress and equipment of his eight score 
men " all alike," but the details of their costume follow the 
fashion of the well-known ballad hero. The letter written by 
the king was " large and long," reminding us of the " braid " 
letter sent Sir Patrick Spens, and we are told in each case 
that the king signed his letter with his own hand. Even the 
stirring valor of Johnie's encouragement to his men in the 
next to the last stanza appears in different versions through 
ballad literature. Another version of the eleventh stanza 
makes the meaning a little more clear: 

369 



370 NOTES 

I have asked grace of a graceless face, 
No pardon here is for you nor me. 

Goldsmith wrote that he thought the music of the finest 
singer of his day was " dissonance to what I felt when our 
old dairy-maid sung me into tears with Johnie Armstrong's 
Last Good-Night." 

THE BATTLE OF OTTERBURN 

(Page 7) 

Perhaps the most typical of the old English ballads are 
those that celebrate the heroic deeds of warfare on the " Bor- 
der," where strove the hostile nobles with their retinues, 
English on the one side, Scottish on the other. And of these 
ballads, that of The Battle of Otterburn is certainly the 
most famous. It was of that or the ballad of Chevy Chase, 
based apparently on the same incident, that Sidney wrote: " I 
never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas that I found 
not my heart moved more than with a trumpet; and yet it 
is sung by some blind crowder (beggar), with no rougher 
voice than rude style." And in the various forms in which 
the old ballad has come down to us, it has been singularly 
popular ever since. The materials for the version given here 
were collected by Sir Walter Scott from earlier versions of 
the old tradition; the arrangement and wording are his own. 

The ballad is based on a historical battle waged between 
Scottish and English forces, August 19th, 1388, and recorded 
in Froissart's Chronicles from the accounts of those who had 
actually taken part in the fray. The basis of fact on which 
the story is built is, briefly, as follows: The Scottish 
party, under the Earl of Douglas, invaded the hostile country 
and came in conflict with an English force, including Sir 
Henry Percy, at the stronghold of Newcastle; the 
quarrel between the two leaders was interrupted by che with- 
drawal of the Scottish troops, and was continued some days 
later when the English force overtook their enemies at a 
point further north; the battle was ended when Douglas was 
killed and Percy was led away captive. This bare outline, 
then, is true, as is the fact that Douglas wished his death 
to be concealed from both friend and foe; but the rest is the 
picturesque element added gradually in the telling and re- 
telling of the tale, — the first haughty challenge, the ap- 
pointment to meet after three days at Otterburn, the incident 



OLD BALLADS 371 

of the page and the foreboding- dream, the last episode be- 
tween Percy and Sir Henry the Montgomery. And these are 
the things, when we come to think of it, that cast an atmos- 
phere about the story, raising it from a literal account of a 
bloody battle to a stirring tale of chivalry. 

To the ballad's basis in actual historical fact is to be at- 
tributed the use made of geographical names, — the castles 
and rivers of north-west England about Newcastle, near the 
mouth of the river Tyne. And in the same way do we ac- 
count for the familiar names of prominent Scotch families 
mentioned as having taken part with Douglas in his raid. Of 
the Scotch form of words made use of in the ballad, most 
will easily be recognized from their sound: those not so easy 
to understand are explained in the following list: 

ain: own loun: gcod-for-naught 

ane: one muir-men: moor men 

bent: field pallions: tents 

bralzen: fern reels: matters 

dight: prepare for sair: sore 

fain: pleased saut: salt 

fell: skin strapped: struck 

fend: provision swat: sweated 

Icale: cabbage lane: one 

Lammas tide: a harvest festival win: dry by airing 
7i7.)/ lee: fair glade 

ROBIN HOOD'S DEATH 

(Page 11) 

About the figure of the gallant outlaw, Robin Hood, and 
the " merry men " who made up his band, cluster a great 
many stories that have come down to us in the form of bal- 
lads. Of these there is room for only one here — but it is 
one of the best. It will well repay those who care for Robin 
Hood to look up the tales of his every-day adventures; yet 
perhaps none of them show so much courtesy and manly, 
dignified pathos as this story of his death at the hands of his 
treacherous cousin. The circumstantial telling of the tale, 
with the use of proper names, is not to be taken as evidence 
that the ballad is based on fact: we are not even sure that 
Robin Hood existed as a historical person. The best schol- 
arly opinion, however, is that an outlaw did live in early 
times whose exploits gave rise to many fictitious tales. In 
this example we find traces of a refrain, showing that the 
ballad was' originally meant to be sung. 



372 NOTES 

The words which need explanation follow: 

dree: be able ring: door-knocker 

flee: fly win: go 

THE TWA CORBIES 

(Page 14) 

This ballad follows the unusual method of telling its story 
by suggestion. The tragedy has already taken place, but the 
brief dialogue of the ravens makes the story terribly clear. 
Few poems better exemplify the quality of condensation, 
typical of ballads as a class. A few words may need ex- 
planation: 

ae: one fail: turf mane: lamentation 

corbies: I'avens hause-bane': neck bone tane: one 
een: eyes kens: knows theek: thatch 

YOUNG WATERS 

(Page 15) 

Although there is no positive evidence to connect this 
ballad with a historical incident, it is interesting to note that 
the story is definitely placed in the Scottish town of Stirling, 
north of which still stands an eminence known as " Heading 
Hill." It is not altogether clear whether the reference to the 
" round tables " indicates an indoor game or the custom of 
holding tournaments among the knights of a single court. 
The horse, " gowden graithd " before, is caparisoned in gold, 
unless the mention of silver shoes behind implies that his 
forefeet were shod with gold. 

LORD RANDAL 

(Page 17) 

The story told in this ballad has been current in England 
and on the Continent for hundreds of years, and appears in 
a great variety of forms. In the great collection of English 
ballads edited by Child there are nineteen versions, each dif- 
fering from the others in nearly every detail. For example, 
the recurring line of address to the young man has many 
different forms, from the dignified " Lord Randal, my son," 
of this version, to the childish " My wee, wee croudlin' doo 
doo." 



LATE BALLADS 373 

THE BAILIFF'S DAUGHTER OF ISLINGTON 

(Page 18) 

The idea on which this ballad is founded is current in the 
songs of several countries of Europe. It has always been a 
favorite ballad in England, and the music to which it is com- 
monly sung is still preserved. 



LATE BALLADS 

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER 

(Page 20) 

Though this is a ballad written in modern times, it is sin- 
gularly true to the spirit of the old ballad literature. Its 
strong sense of " action," its rapid movement, its direct sim- 
ple phrasing, its sole concern with telling the story, not inter- 
preting it or commenting on it, — these things it has in com- 
mon with the ballads of old England. Are there any qual- 
ities that mark it as nevertheless a modern ballad? 



LADY CLARE 

(Page 22) 

Although there is no attempt here to imitate the character- 
istic subject-matter of the old ballads, it is easy to find re- 
semblances in the simple directness of treatment and style. 



LUCY GRAY 

(Page 25) 

"Written at Goslar, in Germany, in 1799. It was founded 
on a circumstance told me by my sister, of a little girl who 
not far from Halifax, in Yorkshire, was bewildered in a 
snow-storm. Her footsteps were tracked by her parents to 
the middle of a lock of a canal, and no other vestige of her, 
backward or forward, could be traced." — Wordsworth's 
note. 



374 NOTES 

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS 

(Page 27) 

Longfellow writes in his diary of how he wrote the ballad 
on the " Wreck of the Hesperus, on the reef of Norman's 
Woe, in the great storm of a fortnight ago." He says: "I 
sat till twelve o'clock by my fire smoking, when suddenly it 
came into my mind to write the Ballad of the Schooner Hes - 
perus; which I accordingly did. Then I went to bed, but 
could not sleep. New thoughts were running in my mind, 
and I got up to add them to the ballad. It was three by the 
clock. I then went to bed and fell asleep. I feel pleased 
with the ballad. It hardly cost me an effort. It did not 
come into my mind by lines, but by stanzas." 

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI 

(Page 30) 

The idea of the poem seems to have been suggested by the 
name of an old translation that Keats had run across in his 
reading. But it was the name only that attracted Keats, for 
the older poem has nothing in common with his. It is not a 
poem to analyze in a search for " meaning," but one" to read 
again and again for the haunting weirdness of its tone. 

EARL MARCH LOOK'D ON HIS DYING CHILD 

(Page 32) 

This is one of the most condensed stories to be found in 
our literature. Note how much is told and implied in the 
first stanza alone, and then observe how much of the subse- 
quent story is read between the lines of condensed, rapid 
action. 

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH 

(Page 32) 

One of Madge Wildfire's songs in the Heart of Mid- 
lothian. Of this song Palgrave says: "Scott has given us 
nothing more complete and lovely than this little song, which 
unites simplicity and dramatic power to a wild-wood music 
of the rarest quality. No moral is drawn, far less any con- 
scious analysis of feeling attempted: — the pathetic meaning 



SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 375 



is left to be suggested by the mere presentment of the situ- 
ation." 



BOSABELLE 

(Page 33) 

The ballad sung by Harold in the sixth canto of The Lay 
of the Last Minstrel. The superstitious premonitions of 
danger are familiar features of old ballad literature, but 
through the poem, and especially in the descriptive stanzas 
near the end, there is a quality of diction and meter that 
marks the modern artist. In stanza three, inch is a Scotch 
word for " island." The game referred to in the sixth stanza 
is of course that of catching a suspended ring upon the 
sword-point as one rides by at full gallop. 



SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

LOVE 

(Page 36) 

This poem, with a few stanzas added at beginning and end, 
and with a few changes, was first published as the In- 
troduction of a longer poem, begun but never completed, that 
was to be entitled The Ballad of the Dark Ladle. 



HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM 
GHENT TO AIX 

(Page 42) 

The sense of galloping speed that this poem produces is 
due not alone to the strong anapestic meter, but to an im- 
pression of the landscape, which comes in a series of rapidly 
flashed pictures, as they would be seen by a preoccupied 
rider from the back of a fast moving horse. The poem has 
no historical foundation: Browning wrote it, as he says, 
" under the bulwark of a vessel, off the African coast, after 
I had been at sea long enough to appreciate even the fancy 
of a gallop on the back of a certain good horse, ' York,' 
then in my stable at home." 



376 NOTES 

LAODAMIA 
(Page 44) 

"Written at Rydal Mount. The incident of the trees 
growing and withering put the subject into my thoughts, 
and I wrote with the hope of giving it a loftier tone than, 
so far as I know, has been given to it by any of the an- 
cients who have treated of it. It cost me more trouble than 
almost anything of equal length I have ever written." — 
Wordsworth's note. 

This poem stands apart from the body of Wordsworth's 
work, as an attempt to express a story of classic origin in 
the spirit of Greek life. The ideal of calm self-possession, 
of dignified restraint when under emotional stress, is felt not 
only in the incident chosen, but in the manner of the telling — 
the simple diction, with its few, well-chosen adjectives, the 
even, melodious verse. The spirit that we think of as pecu- 
liarly Greek is admirably summed up in the thirteenth 
stanza, and in harmony with this is the picture of future hap- 
piness, as conceived by the Greeks, in stanzas seventeen and 
eighteen. The qualities we speak of appear perhaps most 
clearly when we contrast this poem with one in the spirit of 
mediaeval romance, like The Eve of St. Agnes. 

THE OUTLAW 

(Page 49) 

A song by the leader of the outlaws in the third canto of 
Rokeby. The introductory words give an idea of the 
scene : 

With desperate merriment he sung, 

The cavern to the chorus rung, 

Yet mingled with his reckless glee 

Remorse's bitter agony. 

MY LAST DUCHESS 

(Page 51) 

The speaker is an Italian nobleman, whose former wife — 
his " last duchess " — has died, and who now is about to ar- 
range details of dowry with the father of the woman he next 
proposes to marry. In displaying her portrait — by a myth- 
ical Fra Pandolf — the nobleman brings out indirectly the 
story of his former marriage, — the wife's offense in bestow- 



STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 377 

ing her smiles and gratitude on all men alike, and not re- 
serving them for her husband alone; the husband's "com- 
mands," so grimly suggested in the words, " Then all smiles 
stopped together." The wife's innocent, gracious personal- 
ity is indicated in a few telling lines; stronger yet is the im- 
pression received of the coldly inhuman nature of the hus- 
band. Feeling that his wife, in accepting his " nine-hundred- 
years-old-name," has therefore surrendered herself, body 
and soul, to his pleasure, he is unwilling to compromise his 
dignity by stooping to correct her fault, but prefers to up- 
hold his honor, instead, by the issue of his " commands." 
The impression of character that this makes is heightened 
by the fact that the nobleman sees fit to narrate these facts 
to the father of his next bride, on the eve of her marriage; 
still more by the indifference with which he turns to speak, 
in leaving, of a cherished piece of bronze statuary. 



STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 

INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP 

(Page 54) 

The storming of Ratisbon took place in 1809. The inci- 
dent here narrated is true, except for the fact that the hero 
was not a boy but a man. 

HOHENLINDEN 

(Page 55) 

The poem gets its title from the name of a village in 
Bavaria near Munich, where was fought in 1800 a battle be- 
tween the Austrians and the French. Our sympathies are 
not directed to one side or the other; the poem is simply the 
picture of a battle, seen in a few vivid flashes. The ab- 
ruptness of the changes from stanza to stanza is in the spirit 
of the old ballads, but very different are the meter and the 
diction, and the final impression of the poem. 

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE 
(Page 58) 
The poem tells an actual incident in the battle of 
Balaclava, during the Crimean War, the news of which 



378 NOTES 

stirred England deeply. It is recorded that the ex- 
pression " Some one had blundered," occurring in a news- 
paper dispatch, gave Tennyson the idea of the poem and 
suggested the swing of the verse. 

BATTLE OF THE BALTIC 

(Page 59) 

This poem signalized one of Lord Nelson's greatest naval 
victories. The poem contains all that need be known for 
its complete understanding; the words "gallant good" ap- 
plied to Captain Riou in the last stanza were used by Nel- 
son himself when he wrote home his dispatches. 

HERVE RIEL 

(Page 64) 

Browning founded his poem on an actual incident from 
local French history. It is interesting to notice what sort 
of incidents of heroism Browning chose for his poems, and 
what aspects of those incidents he liked to dwell upon. The 
present poem is an instructive example. When it was pub- 
lished, in 1871, Browning sent the sum that he received for 
it, five hundred pounds, for the relief of the people in Paris 
suffering as a result of the Franco-German war. 

THE REVENGE 

(Page 72) 

The poem follows closely the recorded incidents of a 
battle mentioned by Sir Walter Raleigh as having been 
joined at three o'clock in the afternoon on August 31st, 1591. 
From the contemporary accounts we learn the bravery of 
the English sailor; but the strong sense of personality — 
rugged valor and downright speech — comes from Tennyson's 
handling. To him too is due the vigorous sense of action 
in the battle itself. How the free metrical treatment of the 
poem, with its long, swinging lines here and its abrupt pas- 
sages there, helps bring about this effect becomes very 
clear when we give the poem a spirited interpretation in 
reading aloud. 



STORIES OF BATTLE AND WAR 379 

THE BATTLE OF NASEBY 

(Page 78) 

The battle was fought in 1645 and was the first important 
victory of the " Roundheads," under Cromwell, over the 
Royalists, under King Charles. The poem tells accurately of 
the wavering fortunes of the battle, from the standpoint of 
an officer in Cromwell's army, a sergeant whose very name 
indicates the religious zeal actuating the conquerors. To 
them their cause was Heaven's, and their general, the " brave 
Oliver " of the eighth stanza, was indeed a " servant of the 
Lord." King Charles, on the other hand, "the Man of 
Blood," who was leading his " godless horsemen," including 
his German allies under Rupert, was a coward and an enemy 
of the true religion, whose gallants were destined to have 
their heads rot on Temple Bar, at the entrance to the city of 
London. In the closing stanzas is expressed the Round- 
head's contempt for the luxuries and affectations of court 
life, his hatred for the Roman Catholic influence, represented 
in England by King Charles, and his exulting triumph over 
Rome itself, " She of the seven hills," mother of the church 
that Cromwell and his men were fighting. The rough vigor 
of the Roundhead cause expresses itself not only in the 
downright diction of the poem, but in the strong, rude 
rhythm as well, with its heavy accents and well-marked in- 
ternal rime. An equally vigorous expression of the Royal- 



PHEIDIPPIDES 

(Page 80) 

The germ of the story comes to us from Herodotus, — how 
Pheidippides, the runner, was sent to ask Sparta's aid to 
save Athens from destruction at the hands of the invading 
Persian army, how they put him off, and how, on the return 
journey, while his indignation blazed against Sparta's false 
friendship, he came upon Pan, who promised to aid the 
Athenians, and foretold victory for them at Marathon. An- 
other tradition tells how a courier ran with the news of the 
Grecian triumph at Marathon to the anxious people in 
Athens, and then died from exhaustion when his message was 
delivered. 

For Browning there was great appeal in the simple hero- 



380 NOTES 

ism of the story, — the spectacle of sheer will power, sustained 
by a high purpose, triumphing over the physical difficulties 
of the task. The same feeling on this point finds other ex- 
pression in the stanzas in honor of Roland, the gallant 
horse that brought the good news to Aix, and, staggering in 
with his message, died. But in the story as Browning tells 
it, the most significant thing is not the physical heroism, 
but the hero's attitude toward reward. " Release from the 
racer's toil " was the reward offered by Pan, and the run- 
ner modestly accepted it, as meaning a quiet life with a 
wife and a growing family. At this point there is much in 
common between the true-hearted Greek and Herve Riel, the 
simple Breton fisherman of Browning's other tale. But the 
heroism of Pheidippides is pitched to a higher note, and for 
him was reserved a higher kind of reward, — to put forth 
once more his utmost effort in the service of his country, and 
to die at the moment of achievement. 

It remains to go over the stanzas in order, making such 
illustrative comment as seems called for. The runner's final 
message, "Rejoice, we conquer," is used after the title as 
a motto for the poem. The poem begins with the words of 
the runner on reaching Athens on his return from Sparta, 
and all the stanzas but the last four are the continuation 
of his story. First he salutes his country and its protector 
Pan, equal in praise with Zeus, Athene, and Artemis. Then 
he addresses the archons, or rulers, of Athens, as they stand 
adorned with the tettix, a gold ornament in the shape of a 
grasshopper, emblematic of their nativity. The race he had 
run was to Sparta, more than one hundred and forty miles 
to the south. He had given the people his message — that 
Persia, having conquered Eretria, an island city near Greece, 
had landed near Athens and demanded an offering of water 
and earth in token of surrender to absolute slavery. The 
urgency of his message was such that when the Spartans 
hesitated it seemed to him that the very gods must compel 
them to answer favorably. But no, they made an excuse to 
justify their delay, and Pheidippides was off on the return 
journey again, pouring out his indignation, as he ran, upon 
the woods and the streams he passed. Had the Gods of his 
country, he cried, remembered the animals bound with fillets 
and sacrificed in their honor, had they been grateful for the 
full libations poured out for them? The trees that furnish 
leaves for the victor's wreaths should fade before they 
adorn the tyrant Persian; but the wastes of the wild Mount 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 381 

Parnes will offer no false hopes. Plunging into a hollow, 
he suddenly meets with Pan, the god of the woodland, wild 
man above, and goat below, striking terror at the first glance, 
yet showing in the end a rough kindliness of heart. The 
promise of protection follows, and Pan offers a handful of 
fennel, the herb after which the field of Marathon was 
named, to indicate the place of the coming victory. For 
Pheidippides himself Pan promises — but the runner does 
not say, save that it is reward enough. When pressed to tell 
by Miltiades, the Greek commander, Pheidippides tells the 
words of the god, but puts his own modest interpretation 
on them. 

Soon after was fought the battle of Marathon (b.c. 490), 
in which Miltiades inflicted a telling defeat on the Persian 
army. But the battle was at the seashore, some twenty 
miles to the northeast of Athens, and a courier was needed 
to carry news of the victory to the anxious citizens at the 
Capital. Again Pheidippides was called on, and again he 
answered the call, earning thus the heroic " release " that 
had been promised by the friendly god. 

In connection with this poem it is interesting to note 
that in the modern Olympian games the most important 
contest is the long-distance run called the " Marathon race," 
and that when in recent years the games were revived, in 
Athens itself, the race was over the very course traversed by 
Pheidippides in Browning's story. 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

THE EYE OF ST. AGXES . 

(Page 87) 

This poem was begun early in 1S19, and underwent consid- 
erable revision before being published the next year. Keats, 
in a letter to his brother, dated February 14th, 1819, 
speaks of being on a visit in Hampshire when he " took down 
some thin paper, and wrote on it a little poem called St. 
Agnes's Eve." 

The Feast of St. Agnes comes on the 21st of January, and 
the Eve, of course, on the preceding night. Regarding the 
traditions connected with the occasion we quote a passage 



382 NOTES 

from Leigh Hunt: "St. Agnes was a Roman virgin, who 
suffered martyrdom in the reign of Diocletian. Her par- 
ents, a few days after her decease, are said to have had a 
vision of her, surrounded by angels, and attended by a white 
lamb, which afterwards became sacred to her. In the Cath- 
olic church formerly the nuns used to bring a couple of 
lambs to her altar during mass. The superstition is (for we 
believe it is still to be found) that by taking certain measures 
of divination, damsels may get a sight of their future hus- 
bands in a dream. The ordinary process seems to have been 
by fasting." 

The qualities that delight us in the best of Keats's poetry, 
perhaps most of all in this poem, are phrased perfectly by 
F. T. Palgrave, in the opening words to the preface of his 
volume of selections: "Copiousness in exquisite detail, per- 
petual freshness of phrase." The truth of this characteriza- 
tion comes to us when we find that our chief pleasure in the 
poem is not in following its narrative part, itself a slight but 
perfect thing, but in pausing over the descriptive scenes, 
with their rich suggestions to the senses and imagination. 
If we read some of the descriptions from Spenser's Faerie 
Queene, from which Keats borrowed his stanza form, we see 
some of the shaping influences that brought forth this poem. 
From Spenser is the sensuous melody of line, and the love 
of the antique word, — gossip, cates, amort. But the final 
perfectness belongs to Keats himself — his fertile mind rich 
in sumptuous imagery, his critical sense feeling with labori- 
ous care and delicate sensitiveness for the one happy phrase 
to express it best. 

Of all the features of Keats's diction, there is space here 
to mention only one, — the condensed, suggestive phrase in 
which a word changes its normal part of speech, to stand 
in a new relation with other words. Such, in stanza VII, is 
the phrasing in the line 

Came many a tiptoe, amorous cavalier, 

or, in stanza XIII, "the little moonlight room." The de- 
scription of Angela in stanza XVIII as a " palsy-stricken, 
churchyard thing " is another out of many examples we 
might find, typical of the way in which poetry, absorbed 
with the inner heart of things, makes rule-bound language 
flexible, to serve her ends. 

But it is not alone in the exquisite phrase or glowing im- 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 383 

age that the artistic value of the poem lies. We find it too 
in the structure, one feature of which is worth special no- 
tice. The story is one of passion, the warm love of youth, 
and in harmony with this are the richly colored descriptions 
of the dance, of Madeline's chamber, of the banquet set 
forth in the moonlight. But at the very beginning of the 
poem, and at its end, framing the story of warm, romantic 
love, is the picture of the ancient beadsman, in the cold night 
without, living the end of his lonely, loveless existence. From 
the first stanza the interest shifts gradually to the scene of 
indoor revelry, and when the romantic story is done, we re- 
vert once more to the old beadsman, who has ended at last his 
cheerless life, among the cold ashes without. 

Stanza I. We notice how the effect of chill is given, not 
alone in the images suggested to the imagination, but in the 
very sound of the words, particularly in the rime-words 
cold, fold, told, old. The most notable example of this is 
in Milton's sonnet On the Late Massacre in Piedmont. 

Stanza II. It does not do to try to get at the meaning of 
such a line as the sixth in this stanza by too close an analysis : 
we get the feeling at once, and that is the chief thing. 

Stanza III. Leigh Hunt writes, of the third line: "This 
1 flattered ' is exquisite. . . . Yes, the poor old man was 
moved, by the sweet music, to think that so sweet a thing 
was intended for his comfort as well as for others. . . . But 
it was not to be. We must, therefore, console ourselves with 
knowing, that this icy endurance of his was the last, and that 
he soon found himself at the sunny gate of heaven." 

Stanza VIII. " The use of the old word amort is peculiarly 
happy: it is more expressive of deadened perception than 
any other single word, and is full of poetic associations." 
Forman's note. 

For the allusion in lambs unshorn, see note to stanza XIII. 

Stanza XII. Gossip, according to older usage, often meant 
a neighborly old woman. 

Stanza XIII. "St. Agnes' wool is that shorn from two 
lambs which (allusive to the Saint's name), were upon' that 
day brought to Mass, and offered while the Agnus was 
chanted. The wool was then spun, dressed, and woven by 
the hand of Nuns." Pal grave's note. 

Stanza XIX. Forman explains the last lines as follows: 
" The monstrous debt was his monstrous existence, which he 
owed to a demon and repaid when he died or disappeared 
through the working of one of his own spells by Viviane." 



384 NOTES 

Stanza XXII. " Rose, like a missioned spirit, unaware." 
This exquisite line reached its final form only after repeated 
blotting. The manuscript shows that Keats wrote it so after 
trying the effect of the following phrases: "like an af- 
frighted Bird," "like an affrighted Swan," " Rose like a 
spirit to her unaware." 

Stanza XXIV. Forman's note on this famous stanza be- 
gins: "This sumptuous passage occupied the poet's care very 
considerably." The editor then gives exhaustively the history 
of the earlier forms of the stanza, showing how laboriously 
genius works in attaining its most perfect results. A lover 
of poetry would find much interest in reading all the notes 
upon the poem in this editor's scholarly work. 

Stanza XXV. "Gules: a heraldic term for red: — trans- 
mitted here through the coat-of-arms in the casement." 
Pale/rave's note. 

Stanza XXVII. Leigh Hunt explains the line as follows: 
" Clasped like a missal in a land of Pagans : that is to say, 
where Christian prayer-books must not be seen, and are, 
therefore, doubly cherished for the danger." 

Stanza XXX. Soother seems used here for smoother. 

Stanza XXXVI. The suggestion of the frost-wind and the 
sleet reminds us again of the cold night without, and pre- 
pares us for the return to it in the last stanza. 

Stanza XL. Leigh Hunt remarks, regarding the last line: 
" This is a slip of the memory, for there were hardly carpets 
in those days. But the truth of the painting makes amends, 
as in the unchronological pictures of old masters." 

Stanza XLII. We note that the last word repeats the same 
rime tone that was so impressively used in the first stanza. 

THE ANCIENT MARINER 

(Page 100) 

The interesting circumstances under which the poem was 
written, soon after the friendship between Coleridge and 
Wordsworth was established in their early manhood, can 
best be told in the words of the latter. " In reference to this 
poem I will here mention one of the most noticeable facts 
in my own poetic history and that of Mr. Coleridge. In the 
autumn of 1797, he, my sister, and myself started from Al- 
foxden pretty late in the afternoon, with a view to visit 
Lintoun and the Valley of Stones near to it; and as our 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 385 

united funds were very small, we agreed to defray the 
expense of the tour by writing a poem to be sent to the 
New Monthly Magazine set up by Phillips the bookseller* and 
edited by Dr. Aiken. Accordingly, we set off, and proceeded 
along the Quantock Hills toward Watchet, and in the course 
of this walk was planned the poem of The Ancient Mariner, 
founded on a dream, as Mr. Coleridge said, of his friend 
Mr. Cruikshank. Much the greatest part of the story was 
Mr. Coleridge's invention; but certain parts I suggested. . . . 
We began the composition together, on that to me memorable 
evening; I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of 
the poem, in particular: — 

And listens like a three years' child : 
The Mariner hath his will. 

These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. C. has 
with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded, slipped out of his 
mind, as well they might. As we endeavored to proceed con- 
jointly (I speak of the same evening), our respective man- 
ners proved so widely different that it would have been 
quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from 
an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog." 

The poem grew under Coleridge's hands, and was not 
completed till several months later, when it was published, 
not in the magazine, as originally planned, but, together with 
certain poems of Wordsworth's, in the famous volume en- 
titled Lyrical Ballads, 1798. The marginal gloss, that 
plays with fine imaginative force over the progress of the 
story, was an after-thought, and did not appear till a later 
edition of the poem. 

The first reading of The Ancient Mariner gives an im- 
mediate sense of vivid imaginative power. It is likely, how- 
ever, that in this first reading much will escape us that a 
closer reading would reveal. The details are fused into an 
effect singularly delicate and harmonious, yet the examina- 
tion of these details enhances, rather than detracts from, 
that single impression, mysterious and haunting. 

As foundation for the whole poem there is the story itself, 
conceived as a literal statement of definite happenings. 
These are stated so that we can follow them with accuracy 
if we take the pains. As the ship leaves the harbor, the drop- 
ping from sight first of the kirk, then of the hill, finally of 
the lighthouse top, gives a condensed picture of a North 






386 NOTES 

Devonshire harbor town, with its church and cluster of 
houses nestled in a cleft of the steep hills that overhang the 
sea. From that point the geography is that of the globe 
itself, with no distinguishing parts but the opposite poles and 
the torrid equator between. Yet we are always kept aware 
of the position of the ship on this mysterious waste, where 
reality fades into marvel. First the vessel goes straight to 
the southern polar seas, where the albatross meets and 
saves it from the ice. After the shooting of the friendly 
bird, the ship comes under the influence of the avenging 
Polar Spirit. Accordingly, while the sun rises upon the 
right, the ship sails before the south wind to the regions of 
tropic calm, where, from the direction of the setting sun, 
comes the specter bark with its ghostly crew. When, later, 
the ship takes its mysterious course " moved onward from 
beneath," it goes, still under the guidance of the Polar 
Spirit, until it reaches the equator, where 

The Sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean. 

There the struggle between the Polar Spirit, that could not 
cross north of the line, and the Guardian Saint, striving to 
bring the Ancient Mariner to the wholesome regions of fresh 
breezes and sweet human life, is evident in the " short, un- 
easy motion " with which the ship tugs at her bonds. But 
the Mariner " hath penance done, and penance more will do," 
and so with a sudden bound the ship starts forward, into the 
region of " gentle weather," where its single living passenger 
looks, not on the unearthly colors in which had swum his ship, 
but on the " ocean green " which stretched to the welcome 
lighthouse top and hill and kirk of his own familiar harbor. 
Of course, the forces that move behind the strange ad- 
ventures of this mystic world are spiritual forces, and the 
poem tells their story as well. The key to this spiritual ex- 
perience is, to be sure, given in the familiar stanza near the 
end, beginning " He prayeth best who loveth best," but the 
experience itself is a far more subtle thing than can be 
summed up and disposed of in a " moral " of a few lines. 
Instead of being satisfied, then, with repeating this single 
stanza, we can profitably note some of the questions that 
bear upon the interpretation of the story. Were there, for 
instance, any circumstances that made the shooting of the 
bird a specially wanton act? Was the crime simply in killing 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 387 

the albatross? How do we explain the falling of the bird 
from the Mariner's neck? Why was the expiation not then 
complete, and wherein consisted the added penance that was 
required? How far did his Guardian Saint assist him, and 
how much was left for himself to do? These are some of 
the questions underlying the progress of the tale. We are 
aware of them, not as requiring definite categorical answers, 
but as pointing to the poem's spiritual significance. If we 
follow them sympathetically, perhaps it will be found that 
the stanza that could best be spared from the poem is that 
containing the oft-quoted moral near the end. 

In the metrical power of the poem lies much of its peculiar 
attractiveness. It is easy to note that the verse is that 
traditionally associated with the old English ballads, and so 
consider the matter disposed of. But the simple strength of 
the old ballad measure is only a part of the charm: the 
effects that Coleridge has added give the poem its full met- 
rical distinction. Instead of confining himself to the four 
lines of the old ballad measure, Coleridge freely expands 
his stanza, sometimes to more than twice its ordinary length, 
when the thought is sustained through a longer passage. The 
simile near the end of Part I,, and the picture under the 
rising moon at the close of Part III, are interesting ex- 
amples, showing how a succession of four-foot lines, with 
recurring rimes, gives to the stanza a sense of heightened 
climax. Internal rime appears intermittently, where it 
lightens the lyric speed of a stanza. Alliteration is used 
with something of the same effect. Together they cause such 
a stanza as that beginning " The fair breeze blew" to sing on 
the tongue, and linger in the memory. The ballad measure 
is meant to be read aloud. If we so read this poem we shall 
be aware of another characteristic of ballad style made use 
of here with singular effectiveness, — namely, repetition. To 
that we owe the vivid picture of the Mariner's face and fig- 
ure, with its striking details, so few, yet so strongly im- 
pressed on our imagination. This effect, strong in itself, is 
often enhanced by the recurring verse accent, as in the line 

Day after day, day after day, 

or, more notably, in the two lines 

Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
Alone on a wide, wide sea. 



388 NOTES 

In perfect harmony with these metrical qualities, and tak- 
ing its tone too from the traditional usage of old ballad 
literature, is the diction of the poem. Its most obvious 
quality is its simplicity, its primitive quaintness. The direct- 
ness of such a line as " The sun came up upon the left " is 
one example; another is the naivete of such a construction as 
" The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast." Artless we should 
call it, yet so harmoniously is it combined with other qual- 
ities, that we recognize behind it both strong imagination and 
sure taste. For example, note the effectiveness of the 
archaic forms introduced here and there in the poem. 
" Eftsoons," " swound," " Gramercy," "uprist" — such ex- 
amples as these, without obtruding themselves on our atten- 
tion, help create the atmosphere of old times and old speech 
in which the Ancient Mariner appropriately lives. Figures 
are naturally infrequent in such a style as this, yet when 
they are used, they are strikingly vigorous — 

The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out ; 
At one stride comes the dark. 

Most noteworthy of all, however, is the concreteness of the 
diction, its constant appeal 'to the physical senses. The re- 
sult is that we more than receive abstract ideas — we experi- 
ence the sensations out of which they are made. The ship 
turned north, but what we are told is that the sun now rose 
upon the right; the sea was infested with unpleasant animal 
life, but what we see is slimy things crawling with legs upon 
a slimy sea. So it is throughout. The colors of the en- 
chanted sea, the sound of the uprising souls, the feel of the 
unslaked throat and baked lips, — in such images as these a 
man of simple nature gets his impressions, and in such he 
gives us a vivid sense of sharing them. 

These are some of the results when we consider the poem 
in its details, one at a time. What is the total effect when 
all are taken together? No one quality takes precedence 
over the others; rather, all are united in one single impres- 
sion. It takes our imagination captive, and by degrees leads 
it into a region where the real and the unreal, the plausible 
and the impossible, are fused into one, and we care not to 
disentangle them. If, by chance, we should care, " something 
inexplicable will remain to tease us," and in that very fact 
will be found much of the spell that the poem casts over us. 
As Professor Beers has excellently put it: " The Ancient 






LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 389 

Mariner is the baseless fabric of a vision. We are put under 
a spell, like the wedding guest, and carried off to the isola- 
tion and remoteness of mid-ocean. Through the chinks of 
the narrative, the wedding music sounds unreal and far off. 
What may not happen to a man alone on a wide, wide sea? 
The line between earthly and unearthly vanishes. Did the 
mariner really see the spectral bark and hear spirits talking, 
or was it all but the phantasmagoria of the calenture, the 
fever that attacks the sailor on the tropic main, so that he 
seems to see green meadows and water brooks on the level 
brine? No one can tell; for he is himself the only witness, 
and the ship is sunk at the harbor mouth. One conjectures 
that no wreckers or divers will ever bring it to the top 
again. Nay, was not the mariner, too, a specter? Now he is 
gone, and what was all this that he told me, thinks the wed- 
ding guest, as he rises on the morrow morn. Or did he tell 
me, or did I only dream it? A light shadow cast by some 
invisible thing swiftly traverses the sunny face of nature 
and is gone. Did we see it, or imagine it? Even so elusive, 
so uncertain, so shadowy and phantom-like is the spiriting of" 
this wonderful poem." 

SOHRAB AXD RUSTUM 

(Page 12-2) 

This " episode," the most important of Matthew Arnold's 
narrative poems, was published in 1853, in the earlier part 
of the poet's literary activity. In theme and style it stands 
distinctly apart from other narrative poems in English, and 
so invites a brief inquiry on certain special points. 

The material of the story comes from ancient Persian 
tradition as preserved in the Shah Nameh, a legendary his- 
tory of Persia's early kings and champions. The account 
of Sohrab and Rustum as it appears in that poem is far 
longer and more complicated than Arnold's story; yet the 
central situation is the same in both, as well as many of the 
essential circumstances. A detailed comparison of the two 
would show how Arnold has simplified the events of his poem 
for the sake of more concentrated interest. For example, 
the combat, according to the legend, is not ended until the 
evening of the third day of hard fighting, whereas in 
Arnold the whole episode falls within the compass of a single 
day. In both stories Sohrab's ruling motive is the same — his 



390 NOTES 

intense desire to find his father; but in the legendary ac- 
count the armies do not await the outcome of a single com- 
bat: they are themselves engaged in a general conflict, the 
heroes having retired by common consent to a more lonely 
spot to fight their battle undisturbed. Other differences might 
be mentioned, notably the selfish motive assigned by the old 
legend to the Tartar king, in his desire to have Rustum 
killed in the fight; but greater detail does not concern the 
average reader: Arnold's poem is complete in itself, and 
while a certain curiosity as to the origin of his poem is 
natural, full appreciation of it does not require an accurate 
comparison with the ancient source. 

Nor is there need to look up and identify all the Oriental 
names that appear in the poem, especially in its first part. 
The names that are important explain themselves, and the 
others serve another purpose. All we need know geograph- 
ically is that the armies meet on the shores of the Oxus, 
a great river south of Turkestan and to the north of modern 
Persia. And the characters we need to keep in mind are few. 
The Persian army, on which side Rustum fought, was led by 
Ferood, assisted by Gudurz and several other chiefs; their 
king, Kai Khosroo, was not at this time upon the field. On 
Sohrab's side, Peran-Wisa, with his lieutenant Haman, com- 
manded the wild Tartar tribes of King Afrasiab. In Seis- 
tan, in the heart of Persia, lived the white-haired Zal, 
Rustum's aged father. 

The purpose of the other names of places and people 
used so lavishly in the poem is of course to give the atmos- 
phere of Oriental life and custom in which the story moves. 
Especially effective in this way is the description of the 
marshaled hosts preparatory to the battle. We recall how 
Scott, with like success, uses local names for the same pur- 
pose; and when we remember how devotedly Arnold admired 
the great works of Greek literature, we are not surprised 
to find him, in this particular as in others, following the 
notable example of Homer himself. 

But though we may not care to follow in detail the changes 
that Arnold introduces in telling his story, we cannot help 
being conscious of the vital bearing of the minor elements 
upon the total effect of the poem. The motives that com- 
pel each hero to the conflict, and that deter Rustum from 
revealing his identity, the strange effect that each had on the 
other, the wavering fortunes of battle that give the father 
the nominal victory, but not at the expense of the son's 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 391 

prowess, — of all these things we feel the effect, as we follow 
the simple progress of the tale. Tragic the story is, but the 
nobility of it is greater, and the final impression is of the 
dignity and worth of the human soul. 

One more observation of a general nature is pertinent. 
The narrative style of the poem is direct and simple in the 
extreme. Line after line, we find an unembellished succes- 
sion of plain statements. No conscious graces of style here, 
no distracting reminders of the author's personality, but 
simply the story itself, moving and powerful because of its 
inherent qualities. Decorative beauty there is too, however, 
singularly exquisite and appealing: we find it in the series of 
similes that are inlaid like gems in the course of the story. 
Similes of such elaboration, pictured lovingly for their own 
beauty as well as for their imaginative bearing on the story, 
are called Homeric, after their earliest and greatest user. 
We feel their appropriateness here, not only because they 
relieve the strict simplicity of style, but because they har- 
monize with the mood of the poem, objective and impersonal, 
holding the reader's attention upon interests outside of the 
poet, — the events of the story itself, or the imaginative 
pictures accompanying them. 



THE RAPE OF THE LOCK 

(Page 147) 

Though one of the most fanciful of poems, The Rape 
of the Lock tells a story that in its simple outline was 
taken directly from actual life. Lord Petre, a fashionable 
young Londoner, had offended Miss Arabella Fermor by cut- 
ting off a lock of her hair. A general quarrel followed, in- 
volving the families and friends of both parties. Finally 
John Caryll, friendly to both, interested Pope in the quar- 
rel, suggesting that he write " something that would make 
this absurd vendetta explode in laughter." Pope took up 
the matter eagerly and produced in 1713 — the poet's twenty- 
sixth year — The Rape of the Lock, publishing it in Lintot's 
Miscellany in its original form of two cantos. Two years 
later the poem was republished, enlarged to five cantos by 
the addition of a supernatural " machinery " of sylphs and 
gnomes, together with certain long passages like that on the 
game of Ombre. It is interesting to note that whereas Miss 
Fermor consented to the publication of the earlier form of 



392 NOTES 

the poem, by the time the later form appeared she had be- 
come deeply annoyed at the notoriety in which the poem had 
involved her. 

Pope styles The Rape of the Lock a " heroi-comical 
poem," and the phrase precisely describes it. Its effect is 
burlesque, but that effect is gained not so much by the ex- 
travagance of its exaggerations as by its whimsical stuff- 
ings from the serious to the trivial, from the solemn to the 
absurd. And the impression grows, as we read on in the 
poem, that what is true in the larger is true in the smaller 
details: the manner is always emphasizing the absurdity of 
the matter, and the matter is poking fun at the pomposity of 
the manner. In a small detail we have an instance of this — 
where a simple pair of steel scissors becomes "a glittering 
forfex." Of the more elaborate juxtaposition of ideas 
trifling and grave we have an example in the passage where 
the Sylph declares her oversight over Belinda to be just 
as careful, whether she 

Stain her honor, or her new brocade, 
Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade, 
Or lose ber heart, or necklace, at a hall. 

Fully to appreciate the fusing of " heroic " and " comical " 
in its larger aspects requires some familiarity with charac- 
teristic features of the ancient epics of Homer and Virgil, 
— the invocation to the Muse, for example, or the double plot, 
part developed among men and women on the earth, part 
among the divinities interested in the terrestrial struggle. 
To these larger features should be added minor tricks of 
style that ape the classic practice, such as the formal " he 
spoke," after an elaborate speech, or the frequent use of 
such figures as the rhetorical question or personification. 
Frequently a line or two parodies a familiar quotation from 
Virgil, as where Belinda exclaims 

Happy! ah ten times happy had I been 

If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen! 

Similarly, in 

Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves and Demons, hear! 

there is an echo from Milton's line from Paradise Lost, 
Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers. 



LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 393 

These constant reminders of classic style provide the 
"heroic" element of the poem; the substance as constantly 
supplies the " comical." 

The poem abounds in allusions, some classical, some con- 
temporary. The former, such as the lines referring to the 
river Meander, or those touching on the story of .Eneas and 
Dido, are readily recognized. More important than any of 
the others is the allusion at the end of the poem to the story 
of how Berenice, widow of Ptolemy III, cut off her hair 
and hung it as an offering in the temple of Mars, to find 
later that it had been taken up into the heavens and changed 
to a constellation bearing her name. The contemporary 
allusions are more interesting, however, for they put us in 
contact with much that is characteristic of the life and 
thought of the period. Some explanation will bring this out 
more clearly. 

To the Queen, " great Anna," by whose name the literary 
period of Pope is known, allusion is made in the beginning 
of the third canto. Contemporary London appears in the 
reference to the Mall, or Pall Mall (pronounced pell-mell), 
a street frequented by fashionable society; to the locality 
within " the sound of Bow," the church bells heard in that 
scorned section of London devoted to trade; and to the Ring, 
a circular promenade resorted to by the aristocracy. 

Within the exclusive circles of the beaux and belles we 
get a glimpse of the passing fashions of the day, — Ombre, 
the game of cards, whose intricacies we need not understand 
in order to follow the progress of the mock-heroic battle; 
the practice of tea and coffee drinking, recently introduced 
from abroad as a luxury for the wealthy class; the custom 
of celebrating royal birthdays with a ball, where might be 
seen the glittering " Birth-night Beau." Those fashionable 
ailments known as " the Megrims " (headache) and " the 
Vapors " — we should call them the blues — are traced to their 
home, " the gloomy cave of Spleen." And to the literature 
popular in society circles we find reference in the mention of 
" The New Atalanta," a story made up of gossip and scan- 
dal compromising people of rank, and in the allusion to the 
" vast French romances," one of which had been published 
in ten volumes of eight hundred pages each. Finally we 
meet with a figure familiar in his day and even since, John 
Partridge, a " ridiculous star-gazer," butt of the famous 
hoax devised by Swift in 1707. 

Of the more personal matters dealt with in the poem, 



39* NOTES 

brief mention has already been made. The personalities of 
" Belinda " and " the Baron " are of course obvious It is 
sufficient to add that " Plume " is Sir George Brown, who 
was, by the way, very angry at the figure he was made to 
cut in the poem; that " Thalestris " is his sister, Mrs. Morley; 
that "Shock" is Miss Fermor's dog; and that the " Caryll" 
mentioned in the third line of the first canto is the friend 
who suggested to Pope the subject for his poem. 

Not alone does its substance, however, represent the time 
in which the poem was written: quite as characteristic is 
its verse form, known as the " heroic couplet." Each single 
line, taken as a unit, is of course the iambic pentameter of 
" blank verse," but the effect of a long passage is altogether 
different. Because the lines do not " run on," there is little 
of the flowing quality of the best blank verse: on the con- 
trary, the tendency to make each line complete in itself 
favors the so-called " balanced " structure, as in the line 

While the fops envy, and the ladies stare; 

and the succession of rhyming couplets tends to divide a 
passage into short units of two lines each: 

Now lap-dogs give themselves a rousing shake, 
And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake. 

Since there is a minimum of naturally moving story and a 
maximum of epigrammatic flashes of wit, no small degree 
of the effectiveness of the poem is due to the happy ap- 
propriateness of its metrical form. 



POEMS OF JOY IN LIFE 

UP AT A VILLA— DOWN IN THE CITY 

(Page 178) 

The sub-title explains what might at first seem puzzling 
about the poem, by indicating that the local touches are 
Italian and that the point of view is that of an Italian 
" person of quality." The interest of the poem, therefore, 
lies not in the subject of it, but in the character of the 
speaker, and so explains its inclusion among the poems 
designated Dramatic Lyrics. In diction it illustrates in- 



POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 395 

terestingly the desirability of approaching each poem from 
its own point of view. Its subject-matter bears some re- 
lation to that of Milton's L' Allegro, but a reader judging 
it by the standard of that poem would naturally be non- 
plused at the colloquial quality of its thought and lan- 
guage. To appreciate the genuine poetic value of both 
poems requires some imaginative breadth of view. 



POEMS OF COURTSHIP AND LOVE 

THE INDIAN SERENADE 

(Page 182) 

The title of this melodious song is of course purely 
fanciful, adding a touch of romantic charm to the musical 
lines. The use of the unfamiliar word " Champak," in the 
second stanza, is a similar touch, and it makes little differ- 
ence whether we know that the flower is " a species of mag- 
nolia, a beautiful Indian tree, bearing orange-colored, highly 
fragrant flowers." 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY, LIKE THE NIGHT 

(Page 183) 

" These stanzas were written by Lord Byron on returning 
from a ballroom where he had seen Mrs. (now Lady) Wil- 
mot Horton, the wife of his relation, the present Governor 
of Ceylon. On this occasion Mrs. Wihnot Horton had ap- 
peared in mourning with numerous spangles on her dress." 
— T. Moore's note. 

YE BANKS AND BRAES O' BONNIE DOON 

(Page 187) 

The form given here is close to an early version of the 
poem. In order to adapt the song to the tune with which it 
is at present associated, Burns added two extra syllables to 
the alternate lines, and this later version is perhaps better 
known than the earlier. Staw, in the last stanza, means 
" stole." 



396 NOTES 

JEAN 

(Page 18T) 

The unfamiliar words in this poem, with their meanings, 
are as follows: 

Airts: quarters Roiv: roll Shaiv: small wood 

SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF DELIGHT 
(Page 189) 

" Written at Town-End, Grasmere. The germ of this 
poem was four lines composed as a part of the verses on the 
Highland Girl. Though beginning in this way, it was written 
from my heart, as is sufficiently obvious." — Wordsworth's 
note. 

The subject is clearly the poet's wife, Mary. It is a 
notable thing, thus to compress a whole personality, develop- 
ing and maturing through a lifetime, into a short poem of 
thirty lines. Observe the use made of stanza divisions in 
accomplishing this. 



THERE BE NONE OF BEAUTY'S DAUGHTERS 

(Page 192) 

The name that Byron gave to this song is Stanzas for 
Music. If we read the poem aloud, we discover the music 
that already exists in the words themselves, — not alone in 
the delicate meter, but in the sound of the vowel tones. 

I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN 

(Page 194) 

This was written in 1799, when Wordsworth was in Ger- 
many. It belonged to a series of poems written of one who 
has never been identified. Three others are given in this 
volume: She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways, The 
Education of Nature, and A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal, 






POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 397 

JOHN ANDERSON 
(Page 195) 
The words which may give difficulty are: 
brent: smooth pow: head cantie: cheerful maun: must 



POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 

SHE DWELT AMONG THE UNTRODDEN WAYS 

(Page 197) 

As indicated in the note on I Travelled among Unknown 
Men, this poem belongs to a series written in memory of an 
unknown " Lucy." It is a poem especially well worth learn- 
ing by heart. It is characteristic of Wordsworth that his 
deepest feeling is expressed, not in extreme situation or 
extravagant diction, but through the implied story, the sug- 
gested emotion, and in simple, direct language, such as we 
find in this poem. 

THE EDUCATION OF NATURE 

(Page 198) 

See note above. This poem contains one of the most direct 
statements of Wordsworth's belief that daily contact with 
the beautiful in nature has an important influence in mold- 
ing character. He expresses it in the poet's way — showing 
how it applies to a particular situation that affects the 
human heart. The conception of the fifth stanza, particu- 
larly of its last two lines, is especially noteworthy. 

A SLUMBER DID MY SPIRIT SEAL 

(Page 199) 

These stanzas conclude the series of poems addressed to 
" Lucy. 5 ' 



398 NOTES 

HIGHLAND MARY 

(Page 200) 

Burns himself wrote regarding this poem: "The fore- 
going song pleases myself, I think it is in my happiest man- 
ner." It has been pointed out that the " lyric structure " 
of the song is especially clear-cut. The first stanza is in- 
troductory; the second describes the meeting and the aspect 
of nature corresponding with the emotion. The third stanza 
passes directly to the next stage of the story, the parting — 
thought at first to be temporary, but proving in the event 
final; and the natural setting again reflects the mood. The 
feeling of pain and bereavement issues at last in repose, 
gained here by " the thought of her eternal presence in 
his memory." 

DrumJie: muddy birk: birch 

ELEGY 

(Page 202) 

This poem, together with She Walks in Beauty Like the 
Night and a number of others, were written, at the request 
of a friend of the poet, for a Selection of Hebrew Melodies, 
and were published with the music. 

ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD 

(Page 203) 

It is natural to think of this poem as a series of single 
lines and stanzas rich with quiet beauty and exquisitely 
phrased thought, lines here and stanzas there that we like to 
learn and remember and quote. It is right that this should 
be so; yet there is pleasure too in following the poem hi 
its larger aspect, the development of the thought that binds 
the stanzas together into a single whole. After the first 
few stanzas of description the thought turns on the obscurity 
of those who lie buried in the humble churchyard, in con- 
trast to those of distinction, whose bodies occupy the elab- 
orate vaults within the church itself. All men, the great as 
well as the lowly, come to the grave in the end. But does 
the lack of worldly honor and display mean that these hum- 
bler people lacked the nobler emotions that actuated those 



POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 399 

of distinguished career? On the contrary, the finest human 
spirit may have been represented among them, — the tyrant- 
hating courage of a Hampden, the imagination of a Milton, 
the zeal and energy of a Cromwell. But circumstances, 
which forbade the development of their powers in a world 
of action, put a limit too on the exercises of their faults. 
Yet the desire to be remembered after death, a natural desire 
common to us all, has caused these stones to be erected and 
inscribed, inviting a sympathetic tribute from those who 
are later to view them. He too, who is writing these very 
lines, will one day pass away, and others, recalling his quiet 
habits, will point out to the inquirer his tombstone, inscribed 
with an epitaph setting forth the quality of his life. 

But whether this larger development of ideas appears 
readily or not, the beauty of phrase and stanza brings in- 
stant recognition, and needs not to be remarked. Yet even 
here there is an interesting observation to be made, that 
would be likely to escape one unless pointed out: the value 
of the passages lies not in the originality of their ideas, but 
in the perfectness of expression that Gray supplied for ideas 
that had long been current in earlier poetry. We know that 
Gray took great pains with the phrasing of his poems, and 
that he had this one in his possession about seven years be- 
fore circumstances forced him to publish it. The result is 
that for ideas which other men had expressed more or less 
well, he supplied the finally perfect phrase, the phrase that 
we recognize and remember. One example will serve for all. 
Perhaps the most frequently quoted stanza of the Elegy is 
that beginning " Full many a gem.'" In his edition of selec- 
tions from Gray, Professor W. L. Phelps has gathered the 
following forms in which the thought had appeared from the 
time of Milton down to that of Gray himself: 

That, like to rich and various gems, inlay 
The unadorned bosom of the deep. — Milton. 

Like woodland flowers, that paint the desert glades, 
And waste their sweets in unfrequented shades. — Philips. 

Like beauteous flowers which vainly waste the scent 
Of odors in unhaunted desarts. — Cliambcrlayne. 

There is many a rich stone laid up in the bowels of the 
earth, many a fair pearl laid up in the bosom of the sea, 
that never was seen nor never shall be. — Hall. 



400 NOTES 

There kept my charms conceal'd from mortal eye, 
Like roses, that in deserts bloom and die. — Pope. 

Since Gray's time the idea has always been associated with 
his expression of it, and it is unthinkable that any later 
poet should try to improve on what is so widely recognized 
as perfect. 

In so far as it depends on its polished phrase and unerr- 
ing line rather than on striking individuality of thought, 
the Elegy bears interesting resemblance to II Penseroso and 
other poems of its kind. This is emphasized by a feature 
that Milton's poem and Gray's have in common: both were 
written by men who were close students of Latin poetry, and 
both make occasional use of words in their original Latin 
sense rather than in their commonly accepted English mean- 
ing. An example has been pointed out in Milton's line 

Over her decent shoulders drawn. 

Similar instances from Gray are as follows: 

. . . provoke the silent dust, 

in the Latin sense of " call forth " ; 

. . . the genial current of the soul, 

in the sense of " natural to one's genius or individuality " ; 

Some pious drops. . . . 

in the sense of " owed affection or duty," as of a child to 
its parents; 

Fair science frowned not. . . . 

in the sense of " knowledge in general." To the influence 
of Latin poetry may be ascribed as well Gray's tendency 
to personify abstractions, like penury and pride, and to 
concentrate into such a phrase as " storied urn and animated 
bust " a meaning which prose could express only by labori- 
ous explanation. But in this latter respect the Elegy stands 
between the highly concentrated phrasing of Milton's earlier 
poems and the simpler diction of the nineteenth century; 
in fact, the lines that are generally most loved and quoted 



POEMS ON BEREAVEMENT AND DEATH 401 

are those in which the phrasing is most natural and 
direct. 

A few points in detail call for passing consideration. In 
the first stanza, the plural form " wind " suggests the plural- 
ity of the cattle, and avoids an unpleasant juxtaposition of 
sibilants. In the ninth stanza, it is the " hour " that is the 
subject of "awaits," not "the boast of heraldry" and all 
that accompany it; so the verb is singular. The reference 
to Milton in a later stanza is plain enough; the words about 
Cromwell show that Gray, like many of his age, did the great 
general scant justice; the mention of Hampden, however, 
the man who refused to pay the ship-money tax levied by 
Charles I, is wholly appreciative. The inverted structure of 
the following stanza is clear when we pass to the words 
" Their lot forbade." " Far from the madding crowd's ig- 
noble strife " modifies " wishes," of course, not " stray." 
It seems best to read the third stanza beyond in the sense of 
" For who e'er resigned this pleasing, anxious being, to be- 
come a prey to dumb forgetfulness? >? The following stanza 
answers the question. The two stanzas beginning, " Hard by 
yon wood " are inscribed on the memorial to Gray erected 
near the famous churchyard at Stoke Poges, the scene of 
the poem. 

The Elegy is the most famous of English poems written 
in the so-called " heroic couplet," — iambic pentameter lines 
rhyming a b a b. The characteristic stanza is a complete unit 
in itself, as can be seen, for example, in the one beginning 
" The boast of heraldry." It is noteworthy, however, that 
in some cases the sense is carried from one stanza 
into the next. Oral reading discloses the metrical 
delicacy of the poem, as well as such occasional instances 
of sound echoing sense as we find in the last lines of the 
second stanza. 



HESTER 

(Page ;208) 

The " Hester " of the poem was a Quaker girl, Hester 
Savory, who died in her youth, shortly after her marriage. 
Though she was for a time a neighbor of Lamb's, and he was 
in the habit of seeing her frequently, he writes that he had 
never met her. 



402 NOTES 

ELEGY ON THYBZA 

(Page 209) 

The name Thyrza appears in several of Byron's poems 
written about the time of this one. From the evidence of the 
poet's conversations and letters there is reason to believe that 
this is a fanciful name applied to a real, but unidentified 
person. 

EVELYN HOPE 

(Page 211) 

We are not to understand this poem as in any sense 
autobiographic; yet we cannot fail to note in it that strong 
sense of personal immortality that is characteristic of Brown- 
ing's utterances on the subject of death. There is a strong 
tendency to conclude, from the evidence of other poems, that 
Browning knew the secret only of vigorous, rude, and some- 
times careless metrical effects; but a truer view appears 
when the tender delicacy of such poems as this becomes a 
part of the general impression. 

GLEN-ALMAIN, THE NARROW GLEN 

(Page 214) 

Composed during a trip to Scotland on which the poet 
was accompanied by his sister Dorothy and, for a part of the 
way, by Coleridge. Ossian was a hero of early Scottish 
poetry, and it was on hearing of the legend that associated 
him with this glen that Wordsworth wrote the poem. 

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

(Page 215) 

This whole poem is a sustained figure of speech, for it was 
written after Lincoln's assassination, just as he had brought 
the Ship of State to port at the close of the Civil War. The 
note of personal grief is especially significant in view of the 
fact that Whitman, although an intense admirer of Lin- 
coln, had never met him personally. It is when we read the 
poem aloud that we realize the effective contrast ■ between 
the strong movement of the first long lines and the solemn 
tenderness of the short closing ones. 



POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 403 

CORONACH 

(Page 216) 

The Coronach of the Highlanders is explained in the 
Cambridge edition of Scott's poems as " a wild expression 
of lamentation poured forth by the mourners over the body 
of a departed friend. When the words of it were articulate, 
they expressed the praises of the deceased, and the loss 
the clan would sustain by his death." 

THE TWO APRIL MORNINGS 

(Page 221) 

One of those poems which, written while Wordsworth was 
in Germany, show where his thoughts were during the 
period. 

ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 

(Page 223) 

The date in the title is of no importance: the poem might 
be associated with any soldiers' burying-ground. The in- 
teresting feature of the poem is its diction, typical of that 
which was highly in favor in the eighteenth century and has 
been much admired since. 



POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 

THE DAFFODILS 

(Page 230) 

It is pleasant to associate this poem with the following 
extract from the journal kept by Wordsworth's sister: 
" When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park we 
saw a few daffodils close to the water-side. We fancied that 
the sea had floated the seeds ashore, and that the little colony 
had so sprung up. But as we went along there were more, 
and yet more; and at last under the boughs of the trees 
we saw that there was a long belt of them along the 
shore. ... I never saw daffodils so beautiful . . . they 



404 NOTES 

tossed and reeled and danced as if they verily laughed with 
the wind that blew upon them over the lake." Lines 21 and 
22, the " two best," as he said, were suggested to him by his 
wife, Mary. 

TO THE DAISY 

(Page 231) 

The poem is typical of Wordsworth's poems on natural 
objects, revealing an imaginative attitude that never loses 
sight of the simple beauty or worthiness of the object it- 
self. It will be remembered that it is the English daisy, 
fringed with red underneath, that was familiar to Words- 
worth. The succession of similes recalls Shelley's To a 
Skylark. 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS 

(Page 232) 

In order to understand this poem it is necessary to know 
how the nautilus occupies successively larger chambers as its 
spiral shell grows. The dictionary gives a cross-section cut 
illustrating the matter. 

TO A MOUSE 

(Page 234) 

The address to the field mouse, with its accompanying 
description, whimsically tender though it be, is not com- 
plete until the idea is applied to the poet himself. The 
change is not, however, unprepared for: the last part of 
the second stanza has implied a bond holding mouse and man 
in mutual sympathy. The unfamiliar words are so many in 
this poem that it is best to put them down alphabetically. 

Agley: awry Icier: ear of corn 

Bickerin': speedy Laith: loath 

Big: bnild Lane: alone 

Brattle: scamper Lave: remainder 

But: without Tattle: stick for breaking clods 

Coulter: plough-share Snell: biting 

Granreuch: hoar-frost Thole: suffer 

Daimen: occasional Thrave: twenty-four sheaves 

Foggage: moss Whyles: sometimes 

Hald: property 



POEMS ON THE WORLD OF NATURE 405 

TO A SKYLARK 

(Page 235) 

Mrs. Shelley tells of the circumstances occasioning this 
poem: "In the spring we spent a week or two near Leg- 
horn, borrowing the house of some friends, who were absent 
on a journey to England. It was on a beautiful summer 
evening while wandering among the lanes, whose myrtle 
hedges were the bowers of the fireflies, that we heard the 
carolling of the skylark, which inspired one of the most 
beautiful of his poems." 

Of the stimulating imaginative quality of this poem, its 
passion and its exquisite music, nothing need be said. But 
since we are accustomed to think of it as a series of sepa- 
rate stanzas, it will help us to get the full significance of 
the whole poem if we note how the stanzas are related 
together. After the invocation and description come a 
series of imaginative comparisons beginning, it is significant, 
with that of the poet singing to the indifferent world. Then 
with the thirteenth stanza begins a wistful inquiry as to the 
secret of the bird's unconquerable joyousness, with a sad 
reflection as to the pain in man's own life. . By the last 
stanza the two ideas are brought into one — the yearning of 
the poet toward adequate expression, and the triumphant 
eloquence of the skylark's song. This disposition of the poet 
to identify himself with the spirit in nature to which he 
sings we connect, of course, with the noteworthy example 
of it in the Ode to the West Wind. 

TO THE SKYLARK 

(Page 239) 

A comparison of the poem with Shelley's more famous 
one on the same subject brings out the fact that whereas 
Shelley's passionate spirit identifies itself finally with the 
"clear keen joyance" of the songster, Wordsworth seizes 
on another and more impersonal aspect of the skylark's 
habits. 

TO THE CUCKOO 

(Page 240) 

"Composed in the orchard at Town-End, Grasmere, 
1804-."— Wordsworth's note. 



406 NOTES 

We in this country, though we are not accustomed to hear 
the cuckoo, will nevertheless not find it hard to imagine 
its mysterious, unreal call. 

NATURE AND THE POET 

(Page 244) 

This poem was written shortly after Wordsworth's brother, 
John, lost his life bravely on a ship he was commanding. 
This will explain the associations brought to the poet's mind 
by seeing a picture of a stormy sea. 

THE INVITATION 

(Page 246) 

The invitation is to Mrs. Williams, one of Shelley's circle 
of friends during his years in Italy. The families were on 
terms of affectionate intimacy, and it is to the same friend 
that Shelley addressed the lines entitled To a Lady, ivith a 
Guitar. It is to be noted that the next poem, The Recol- 
lection, is addressed to the same friend, and takes up the 
same excursion, or a similar one, in retrospect. 

THE RECOLLECTION 

(Page 248) 

See note to preceding poem, The Invitation. The inscrip- 
tion with which Shelley accompanied the lines said that they 
were " not to be opened unless you are alone or with Wil- 
liams." 

TO THE HIGHLAND GIRL OF INVER8NEYDE 

(Page 252) 

This was written after an incident of the tour of Scotland 
that Wordsworth took with his sister in the year 1803. The 
Journal, kept by his sister Dorothy, has this to say of it: 
" When beginning to descend the hill toward Loch Lomond 
we overtook two girls, who told us we could not cross the 
ferry until evening, for the boat was gone with a number of 
people to church. One of the girls was exceedingly beauti- 



POEMS OF LOYALTY AND PATRIOTISM 407 

ful: and the figures of both of them, in gray plaids falling 
to their feet, their faces only being uncovered, excited our 
attention before we spoke to them. I think I never heard 
the English language sound more sweetly than from the 
mouth of the elder of these girls, as she stood at the gate 
answering our inquiries, her face flushed with the rain." 

THE REAPER 

(Page 254) 

Another poem that had its origin in the experiences of 
the tour through Scotland. That Wordsworth does not try 
to answer the questions that he suggests to our imaginations, 
or point a lesson from them, indicates fine literary feeling: 
he leaves us with the strong sense of romantic charm that 
he himself felt. 



POEMS OF LOYALTY AND PATRIOTISM 

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND 

(Page 257) 

In his early manhood Campbell heard an old ballad called 
Ye Gentlemen of England sung at the house of a friend, in 
Scotland. A little later, when there was a rumor of a war 
with Russia, he was roused to take the older ballad as his 
basis and compose this ringing ode to England's naval 
prowess. 

BANNOCKBURN : ROBERT BRUCE' S ADDRESS 
TO HIS ARMY 

(Page 259) 

Like many songs by Burns, this was composed to fit a 
familiar air. In a letter accompanying the poem, Burns 
tells how the old tune— called " Hey tutti taitie "— " has 
often filled my eyes with tears." He then goes on: " There is 
a tradition, which I have met with in many places in Scot- 
land — that it was Robert Bruce's March at the battle of Ban- 



408 NOTES 

nockburn. This thought in my yesternight's evening-walk, 
warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of 
Liberty and Independence which I threw into a kind of 
Scots Ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be 
the gallant royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on 
that eventful morning." In the Battle of Bannockburn 
(1314) Bruce, with about thirty thousand followers, totally 
defeated the army of Edward II, of about one hundred 
thousand men, destroying nearly a third of the English 
army. 

HOME THOUGHTS FROM THE SEA 

(Page 260) 

Browning composed these lines as he was passing Cape 
Trafalgar and Gibraltar and recalled the victory of Nel-. 
son over the combined fleets of Spain and France. 



THE LOST LEADER 

(Page 261) 

The poem expresses the contemptuous indignation felt by 
a high-spirited young man when he finds a noble cause for- 
saken by a distinguished and once cherished leader. The 
growing conservatism of Wordsworth was felt by some of 
the younger men to be such a defection; and though Brown- 
ing confesses that the older poet's attitude was a deep dis- 
appointment to him, nevertheless he distinctly denies hav- 
ing tried to make this a real picture of the man Wordsworth. 



CAVALIER TUNES 

(Page 262) 

Even reading aloud would hardly bring out the strong 
sense of accent in these ringing lines: they suggest the lusty 
shouting of a chorus of men, with perhaps some banging 
on the table to accentuate the rhythm. These were the riot- 
ous adversaries pitted against the earnest Roundheads of/ 
Macaulay's The Battle of Naseby. 



POEMS ON THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 409 



POEMS ON THE PROBLEM OF LIFE 

A MAN'S A MAN FOR A' THAT 

(Page 269) 

This song (for it was sung to a popular air of the day) 
was written in 1795, at a time when the influence of the 
French Revolution was strong in England as well as on the 
Continent. That influence was manifested in English liter- 
ature in the form of a " revolt " from eighteenth century 
standards, and one expression of this was the literature 
of Democracy, of which this lyric is an early example. There 
is no more ringing declaration of the worth of the individual 
soul, and so it has become the rallying cry of protest against 
the artificial claims of social prestige. The words that re- 
quire explanation are as follows: 

Birkie: forward fellow Grec: prize 

Coof: booby Hoddin: coarse woolen cloth 

Maun a fa': must not attempt 

TO MARGUERITE 

(Page 271) 

This is one of a series of poems grouped under the title 
Switzerland. It takes up the idea, begun earlier in the 
series, of human isolation, soul separated from soul, and 
gives it striking expression in the figure of the island. The 
last line is a notable instance of concentrated descriptive 
power. 

WHERE LIES THE LAND? 

(Page 271) 

Wordsworth has a sonnet beginning with the first line of 
this poem, which probably suggested the idea to Clough. It 
is , characteristic of Clough to turn the natural query about 
a literal ship into speculation upon the uncertain journey of 
our mysterious life. Since the second and third stanzas 
bring out the deeper nature of Clough's question, the repe- 



410 NOTES 

tition of the first inquiry comes with greatly increased sig- 
nificance. 

THANAT0P8IS 

(Page 273) 

It is hard to realize that this poem, perfect expression of 
a certain " view of death," was written by a boy of seventeen. 
Dana, to whom the editor of the North American Review 
showed it before publishing it in 1817, declared that the 
editor must have been deceived, — that no one could write 
such poems on this side of the Atlantic. It should be noted, 
however, that the last lines, for which the poem is best 
known, were added ten years after the first draft of the 
poem. 

UP-HILL 

(Page 276) 

The serenity of this allegory of the transition from earth 
to heaven is expressed in the quiet simplicity of its diction. 
Though the lines are irregular in length, the metrical delicacy 
of their accent is revealed when they are read aloud. 

PBOSPICE 

(Page 276) 

Browning here takes his title from the Latin word mean- 
ing " to look forward," and attaches it to a poem which, 
written soon after Mrs. Browning's death, looks forward to 
the time when he himself shall " pay glad life's arrears." 
The vigor of meter that marks the first part of the poem 
undergoes, it will be noted, an appropriate change near the 
end, where the stress of conflict leads to peaceful reunion. 

REQUIEM 

(Page 277) 

These lines were written by Stevenson in anticipation of 
his own death, and are now carved on the boulder that marks 
his grave, high on the crest of a Samoan mountain. 



POEMS IN SONNET FORM 411 



POEMS IN SONNET FORM 

BY THE SEA 
(Page 278) 

" This was composed on the beach, near Calais, in the 
autumn of 1802." — Wordsworth's note. 

As one reads the sonnet aloud, one is struck with its 
metrical beauties. The feeling of quiet spaciousness and 
calm is increased by the long syllables coming together — 
" broad sun," " broods o'er " — and by their vowel tones ; 
the mind is aroused by the sudden metrical change beginning 
" Listen " ; and there is force in the pause before the word 
" everlastingly." But the final impression of the poem comes 
from the delicate, solemn beauty of its idea, the belief in 
divine influences guiding the intuitions of childish life. We 
find, of course, the fuller statement of this belief in the 
Ode on Intimations of Immortality. 

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO CHAPMAN'S HOMER 

(Page 278) 

When Keats was about twenty, he and his friend C. C. 
Clarke borrowed a folio copy of Chapman's translation of 
Homer, and sat up together till daylight, reading it, " Keats 
shouting with delight as some passage of especial energy 
struck his imagination. At ten o'clock the next morning, 
Mr. Clarke found the sonnet on his breakfast-table." 

Structurally it is a perfect example of the so-called 
"Italian" sonnet (see dictionary), with its division into 
octave and sestet emphasized by its characteristic rime- 
scheme. That it was Balboa, not Cortez, that discovered the 
Pacific disturbs not at all the imaginative effect of its won- 
derful sestet. 

IF THOU DOST LOVE ME 

(Page 279) 

This sonnet, and the one following, are selected from the 
series of so-called Sonnets from the Portuguese. The title 
is merely a thin literary disguise, under cover of which 



112 NOTES 

Elizabeth Barrett addresses Robert Browning in the days of 
their courtship. The passionate earnestness of feeling, it 
will be noticed, breaks down the divisions of octave and 
sestet, and sweeps in a single wave from the first line of 
the sonnet to the last. 

A CONSOLATION 

(Page 281) 

This and the following sonnet are taken from the series of 
one hundred and fifty-four written by Shakspere. The 
rime-scheme of the so-called " Shaksperian " sonnet, it 
will be observed, differs from thai of the " Italian " sonnet, 
in that the former has three separate quatrains and a con- 
cluding couplet. 

ON HIS BLINDNESS 

(Page 282) 

This sonnet was written not long after 1652, when Milton 
became blind at the age of forty-four. 

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT 

(Page 283) 

The massacre upon which this sonnet was written took 
place in Switzerland in 1655, at the instigation of the Prince 
of Piedmont. The victims were the body of Protestants 
known as Waldenses. Milton's poem, therefore, was not 
alone an outcry against the physical horrors of the crime, 
but a burst of moral indignation against the spiritual out- 
rage that had been committed. By the triple tyrant Milton 
means the Pope, with his three-tiered crown, and by the 
Babylonian woe the Church of Rome, considered by Milton's 
party to be the doomed Babylon of the Apocalypse (Cp. 
Revelation, chap, xvii and xviii.) 

ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND, 1802 

(Page 283) 

In 1802 Napoleon overcame Switzerland, and deprived her 
of her freedom. Now in 1807 he was planning to do the 



POEMS IN SONNET FORM 413 

same with England. In the light of this it is easy to see the 
significance of setting- the two voices of freedom side by side 
and the intense patriotic devotion underlying the com- 
parison. 

BRIGHT STAB! WOULD I WERE STEADFAST AS 
THOU ART 

(Page 284) 

When Keats was setting out for Italy on what he knew 
was his last voyage, and the ship had been beating about the 
Channel for a fortnight, he landed for a brief respite on the 
Dorsetshire coast. " The bright beauty of the day and the 
scene," writes his biographer, " revived the poet's drooping 
heart, and the inspiration remained with him for some time 
even after his return to the ship. It was then that he com- 
posed that sonnet of solemn tenderness. ... I know of 
nothing written afterwards." 

THE TERROR OF DEATH 

(Page 284) 

Written in 1818, soon after the completion of Endymion. 
Contrasting the sonnet on Chapman's Homer, we note that 
this follows the structure of the Shaksperian sonnet, the 
introduction filling the three quatrains and the conclusion the 
couplet. 

THE INNER VISION 

(Page 286) 

The teaching — known as transcendentalism — that the in- 
ner life has a reality and importance beyond the outer, as 
shown in this poem, has the greater interest for us because 
Wordsworth reached it after a period during which the in- 
fluences of materialistic belief bore strongly upon him. 

ON THE CASTLE OF CHILL ON 

(Page 288) 

Though this poem was prefixed to Byron's longer nar- 
rative poem, The Prisoner of Chillon, it was written later, 



414 NOTES 

after the poet had learned of the story of Bonnivard, a 
former prisoner of the Castle. In the early sixteenth cen- 
tury Bonnivard stood out for the liberty of the people of 
Geneva, and in consequence suffered exile for ten years, 
and imprisonment in this dungeon for six. 

UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE 

(Page 288) 

An interesting example of description for its own sake, 
not, as is more usual with Wordsworth, leading to a re- 
flective passage. The sonnet was written on the roof of 
a coach as Wordsworth was leaving for France. 

ON THE EXTINCTION OF THE VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC 

(Page 289) 

The loss of freedom by Venice calls forth this tribute to 
her former glories, but is too remote to have the same 
effect as the overthrow of Switzerland's liberty (see sonnet 
on England and Switzerland, 1802). References to historic 
circumstances in the earlier life of Venice occur in the first 
part of the poem, that of the eighth line referring to a cere- 
mony, " marrying the Adriatic," instituted, after a victory 
in 1177, to symbolize the city's maritime supremacy. 

WITHIN KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE 

(Page 289) 

The " Royal Saint " was Henry VI, who founded the 
college and began to build the chapel, but left it incomplete, 
to be finished in a later reign. It is a. late Gothic building, 
with a beauty of design and an elaborateness of ornament 
that has made it the most admired and famous of college 
chapels. 

DESIDERIA 

(Page 290) 

" This was in fact suggested by my daughter Catharine 
long after her death." — Wordsworth's note. 



POEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 415 

LOXDOX, 1802 

(Page 290) 

This and the two following sonnets were composed on the 
return of Wordsworth from France, where he had been im- 
pressed by the earnestness of the Revolution and the desola- 
tion it had caused. The " vanity and parade " of his own 
country impressed him in contrast, and the first two of the 
sonnets are a strong expression of his feeling. 

THE SAME 

(Page 291) 

It is interesting to notice the effect of putting the nega- 
tive part of the poem first, and reserving for the end the 
strong, uplifting characterization of Milton's noble quali- 
ties. The " study " of such a sonnet as this consists in read- 
ing it again and again. 

WHEN I HAVE BORXE IX MEMORY WHAT HAS 
TAMED 

(Page 291) 

From '..he feeling of disappointment and distrust of the 
two preceding sonnets comes the reaction expressed in this, 
the final sonnet of the series. 



P'OEMS IN PLAYFUL MOOD 

THE LAST LEAF 

(Page 296) 

One of the author's earliest poems " suggested by the ap- 
pearance of a venerable relic of the Revolution, said to be 
one of the party who threw the tea overboard in Boston 
Harbor. He was a fine monumental specimen in his cocked 
hat and knee breeches, with his buckled shoes and his 
sturdy cane." 



416 NOTES 



POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK 

(Page 313) 

It is natural to associate the exceptional effectiveness of 
this poem with its metrical qualities. Equally interesting is 
it to observe the use of monosyllables of native English 
origin, contrasted with the exceptional soft-toned words of 
foreign origin — " voice/' " vanished." 



THE FLIGHT OF LOVE 

(Page 315) 

One of the last of Shelley's poems, written during his 
residence in Italy, and published after his death. Its imag- 
ery and strange melody express the fluctuations of a mood 
rather than the development of a thought. The unusual 
metrical effect of alternating different kinds of lines is best 
brought out when we read the poems aloud. Compare the 
effect of the same device in One Word Is Too Often 
Profaned. 



YOUTH AND AGE 

(Page 317) 

It was on hearing of the news of the death of the Duke 
of Dorset, a former schoolfellow of the poet's," that Byron 
wrote this poem. He later speaks of the verses as " the 
truest, though the most melancholy, I ever wrote." 



THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN 

(Page 320) 

" This arose out of my observation of the affecting music 
of these birds hanging in this way in the London streets 
during the freshness and stillness of the Spring morning." — 
Wordsworth's note. 



POEMS IN A MINOR KEY 417 

SIMON LEE, THE OLD HUNTSMAN 

(Page 321) 

One of the earliest of Wordsworth's poems, in which he 
was commending to the public taste a simpler diction and 
word order than had been commonly found in contemporary 
English verse. The poem had its origin in an actual oc- 
currence; indeed, Wordsworth records that the expression 
" I dearly love their voice " was word for word from the old 
huntsman's own lips. 

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR 
NAPLES 

(Page 324) 

From such a poem as this our conception of lyric poetry 
grows clearer. It has its beginning in personal emotion, but 
its choice of the significant aspects of the feeling, and the 
sympathetic beauty of its expression, make it stand for 
experience in which we can all share. The Golden Treasury 
version of this poem leaves out the last stanza as Shelley 
wrote it, and so it is added here. 

Some might lament that I were cold, 
As I when this sweet day is gone. 
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, 
Insults with this untimely moan; 
They might lament, for I am one 
Whom men love not, — and yet regret. 
Unlike this day, which, when the sun 
Shall on its stainless glory set, 
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. 

A DREAM OF THE UNKNOWN 

(Page 325) 

Of the line beginning " And wild roses " Mr. Palgrave 
says: "Our language has perhaps no line modulated with 
more subtle sweetness." 

A DIRGE 

(Page 329) 

Mr. Stopford Brooke quotes, as illustrating the force of 
the word knells, these lines from Adonais: 



418 NOTES 



As the last cloud of an expiring storm 
Whose thunder is its knell, 

and notes how all things are spoken of as sounding, the 
wind, the cloud, the caves, the sea, and even the trees, 
straining their branches in the storm. 



POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 

THE REALM OF FANCY 

(Page 331) 

These lines were inclosed by Keats in a letter to his 
brother, in 1819, and they were published the next year. 
The sensitive, impressionable quality of Keats's mind is 
indicated by the strong influence upon his writing of the 
older poets he had been reading. It is interesting, therefore, 
to verify Mr. Palgrave's comment : " I know no other poem 
which so closely rivals the richness and melody, — and that 
in this very difficult and rarely attempted metre, — of 
Milton's L' Allegro and Penseroso." 

KUBLA KHAN 

(Page 334) 

With reference to this poem Coleridge tells us how he fell 
asleep, in the summer of 1797, from the effect of an ano- 
dyne as he was reading a description from Purchas's Pil- 
grimage, and how during this sleep the images and words 
of a poem seemed to come to him of their own accord. On 
awaking he took pen and paper and eagerly wrote down the 
lines here preserved; but after being interrupted by a mat- 
ter of business he was able to retain only a " vague and dim 
recollection of the general purport of the vision," and so 
the poem remains " a fragment." It is small wonder, then, 
that Kubla Khan seems strange to us, for the subtly melodi- 
ous lines are controlled by no evident purpose, but seem 
rather to subserve the whim of shifting romantic suggestion. 
A specially noteworthy example of the haunting, intangible 
charm are the three lines beginning "A savage place!" 
The passage from Purchas, which Coleridge refers to, is as 
follows : 



POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 419 

" In Xamclu did Cnblai Can build a stately Palace, en- 
compassing sixteene miles of plaine ground with a wall, 
wherein are fertile Meddowes, pleasant Springs, delightfull 
Streames, and all sorts of beasts of chase & game, and in 
the middest thereof a sumptuous house of pleasure." 

THE MERMAID TAVERN 

(Page 336) 

The Mermaid Tavern was the famous inn at which Shaks- 
pere, Ben Jonson, and other dramatists of the time used 
to meet frequently. 

TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR 

(Page 337) 

To understand the subtle fancy of this poem requires a 
knowledge of the circumstances of its composition and 
some familiarity with Shakspere's Tempest. Ariel, the fairy 
servant of the ancient Prospero, on his enchanted island, 
had once, it will be recalled, been imprisoned in a cloven 
pine, until released by the magician. So the spirit of music, 
Shelley tells his friend Mrs. Williams, is captive in the wood 
of the guitar, her prisoner now, to follow her commands. 
But Ariel is not merely an impersonal spirit: Shelley imag- 
inatively identifies the fairy with himself, bringing the guitar 
to Miranda, the lovely daughter of his old master Prospero. 
So his fancy plays over the poem — in the first half ex- 
pressing Shelley's solicitous regard for the happiness and 
welfare of his friend, in the second the power of her sym- 
pathetic spirit to divine the delicate secrets hidden in 
musical harmony. 

The guitar which accompanied the poem is still preserved 
in the Bodleian Library at Oxford; and an interesting ac- 
count by Trelawney comes down to us of how Shelley com- 
posed the poem, crouched under a fallen pine by a forest 
pool, scrawling down his words in an absorbed reverie. 

L'ALLEGRO and IL PEXSEROSO 

(Pp. 339 and 344) 

The probable date of these poems is 1633, when Milton 
was twenty-four years of age. In them we find, not the 



420 NOTES 

austere man whom we associate with Paradise Lost, but a 
man with a full sense of joy ripening into thoughtful medi- 
tation. In fact, it seems natural to interpret the poems as 
a balancing between the two ideals of life that the poet was 
setting before himself, — that of carefree, innocent mirth, 
the mood of youth, and that of pensive, sober meditation, 
appropriate to a maturer age. The title of the first poem, 
The Cheerful Man (L' Allegro), admits of no misunder- 
standing. But the invocation of the second is likely to de- 
ceive us, and we need to remind ourselves that II Pen- 
seroso means, not a melancholy man, but merely one of 
thoughtful, meditative nature. 

As we read the poems, we soon find a key to their struc- 
ture, — the successive periods of a day spent according to the 
two ideals of life. But the day is a poetic, not a literal day: 
it is not restricted to the experience of a single individual: 
the scene changes freely from the country to the city, when- 
ever a typical experience of pleasure is to be found. If, 
then, we meet the poet in his own imaginative mood, it be- 
comes a pleasure to follow the successive phases of each day's 
occupation, and to observe how they contrast each with the 
other, part by part. In that same realm of imagination it 
becomes natural to find Milton ranging at will from classic 
mythology to Christian traditions and to the new creations 
of his own fancy: the magic spell is on us, and we follow 
unquestioning where he leads. 

One thing that often stands in the way of a natural enjoy- 
ment of the poem is the number of classical allusions with 
which it is studded. Of course, when the allusions are fa- 
miliar, the flashes of association that they call up enrich the 
value of the poem for us, and it is indeed only when we so 
read them that we get their true effect. Yet after all, it is 
not in the allusions that the greatest value of the poem lies; 
it is in such lines as those characterizing Shakspere that we 
take the deepest pleasure. 

A word finally as to the versification: We recognize at 
once the prevailing iambic in which the poem is written; but 
we notice as well the places where irregularities of meter, 
with trochaic effect, give variety and spontaneity to the lines. 
It is interesting to observe, in our reading aloud, where these 
changes come, and how they relate themselves to the emo- 
tional mood of the passage. 

In the notes that follow, only those few details appear that 
seem really to need explanation. For the rest, we need to 



POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 421 

keep our imagination keenly on the alert, — our visual imagi- 
nation to picture such a scene as is given in the lines 

Towers and battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted trees, 

and our spiritual imagination to respond to such expressive 
lines as these: 

There, held in holy passion still, 
Forget thyself to marble. 



L' ALLEGRO 

(Page 339) 

1-3. This personification of Melancholy, the indication of 
her relationship to the three-headed watchdog of the nether 
world, and of her birthplace on the banks of the river of 
Hades is all, of course, an invention of Milton's fancy, typi- 
cal of those with which he inlays his poetry. 

10. Cimmerian: according to Homer, a race living far to 
the west, in perpetual darkness and mist. 

12. Euphrosyne: one of the Graces. Of the two theories 
of parentage suggested, it is easy to see why the second 
should commend itself more to Milton. Yclept: an archaism 
meaning " called." 

29. Hebe: the cup-bearer to the Gods, typifying eternal 
youth. 

36. Mountain nymph: The whereabouts of Liberty's natu- 
ral home is happily suggested. 

45. Then to come: It seems best to regard this as par- 
allel with " to hear " above, meaning that Allegro comes, 
and, through the window, bids good-morrow to one of his 
household or, perhaps, to the world of nature about him. 

In spite of: equivalent to in despite of (in order to spite) 
sorrow. 

55. Hoar hijl: The indication of hoar-frost sets the season 
late — good hunting weather. 

67. Tells his tale: Besides the obvious meaning, the ex- 
pression often signifies " counts the number " of sheep — a 
natural and profitable morning occupation. 

71. Lawns: open fields. Fallows: land left ploughed, but 
without crops. 

80. Cynosure: originally the constellation of the Lesser 



422 NOTES 

Bear, by which sailors steered; then, by a figure, anything 
that attracted the gaze and admiration of the many. 

83-8. Corydon, etc.: The four names in this group, the 
first two of shepherds, the last two of shepherdesses, have 
been traditional in pastoral poetry since the time of Theo- 
critus. 

91. Secure: has here the earlier meaning of " care- free." 

94. Rebeck: a rude kind of fiddle. 

102. Faery Mab: the mischievous sprite whose playful 
tricks on the junkets (cream cheese) of the country wenches 
are the subject of many a story. 

104-14. Friar's lantern, etc.: Now one of the men takes 
up the tale, and tells of being led by Friar Rush, or Jack- 
o'-lantern, to a spot where Robin Goodfellow performs pro- 
digious feats for the reward of a bowl of cream, before hav- 
ing to beat a hasty retreat at dawn. Lubber fiend here 
means no more than a kind of clownish Brownie house- 
servant. Crop-full: stomach-stuffed. 

120. Weeds: garments in general, according to older usage. 

125-30. Hymen: the God of the marriage feast, with his 
appropriate companions. 

132. Learned sock: the low slipper (Latin soccus) worn 
by the actor in comedy, contrasted with the high boot, or 
buskin, of the tragic stage. Compare II Penseroso, line 102. 

136. Lydian airs: tender and voluptuous melodies, as con- 
trasted with the sprightly Phrygian music or the majestic 
Dorian. The melody of sound in this passage (135-144), so 
exquisitely following the sense, peculiarly rewards a sym- 
pathetic reading aloud. 

145-50. Orpheus, etc.: The story of Orpheus, whose music 
prevailed on Pluto to release his dead wife from Hades, is 
referred to again in II Pensoroso, lines 105-8. 

IL PENSEROSO 
(Page 344) 

3. Bestead: satisfy, profit. 

4. Toys: trifling vanities. 

6. Fond: here, "foolish," according to earlier usage. 

10. Pensioners: an honorary body-guard. Morpheus: the 
God of dreams. This line is a good expmple of Milton's 
most concentrated diction, each word requiring sympathetic 
comprehension before the significance of the phrase can be 
grasped in its entirety. 



POEMS ON THE IMAGINATION 423 

18. Prince Memnon's sister-. Milton transfers the peerless 
beauty of a traditional hero, Memnon, to a sister, whom he 
seems to have invented. 

19. Starred Ethiop queen: Cassiopeia, whose boasts that 
the beauty of her daughter Andromache surpassed that of 
the Nereids brought vengeance from the God of the Sea. 
The fact that both mother and daughter were afterwards 
placed among the constellations accounts for the epithet 
" starred." 

23-30. Bright-haired Vesta, etc.: This passage assigns the 
birth of Melancholy to the age of primitive innocence in the 
world, before Jove displaced Saturn as King. The purpose 
is evidently to attribute calm and sanctity to the Goddess. 
Ida's inmost grove: in a mountain in Crete. 

33. Grain: used in Milton's time for a rich purple dye. 

35. Stole: evidently here a kind of shawl. Cipres lawn: 
a kind of fine black crepe. 

36. Decent: used here in Latin sense of "comely." 

52-4. Professor Masson's explanation of the passage is as 
follows: " A daring use of the great vision, in Ezekiel, chap. 
x, of the sapphire throne, the wheels of which were four 
cherubs, while in the midst of them and underneath the 
throne was a burning fire. Milton ventures to name one of 
these cherubs who guide the fiery wheelings of the visionary 
throne." 

55. Hist: a coined verb, in the imperative, expressing ef- 
fectively a hushed summons. 

56. Philomel: the nightingale, bird of melancholy. 

59. Cynthia checks her dragon yoke: Another mythological 
invention of the poet's, for though other Goddesses did drive 
dragon-teams, Cynthia (Diana) did not. 

74. Cur feu: from the French convre-feu, to extinguish 
the lights, at the signal of a bell in the early evening. 

83. Bellman's droicsy charm: this lines pictures, with 
wonderful concentration, the sleepy night-watchman, with 
his monotonously chanted verses to ward off evil, as he goes 
his rounds from door to door 

87. Outu-atch the Bear: sit up studying till the Bear, 
the constellation that never sets, fades away in the dav- 
light. 

88. Thrice great Hermes: Hermes Trismegistus (thrice 
great), a mythical Egyptian philosopher and magician, sup- 
posed to have written various mediaeval books on astrology. 

88-9. Unsphere The spirit of Plato: call back his spirit 



424 NOTES 

from the sphere it inhabits in the other world, to give aid 
in philosophical studies. 

93-6. Those demons, etc.: The mediaeval traditions, asso- 
ciating the spirits, or " demons," of the four elements (line 
94) with the movements of the planets, are here referred to. 

98-100. In sceptered pall, etc.: The scepter and the pall, 
or cloak worn by the actor in tragedy, would be associated 
with the famous Greek tragedies based on favorite mytho- 
logical stories, — of the royal house of Thebes, of the de- 
scendants of Pelops, of the heroes of the Trojan War. 

102. Buskined stage: See note to L' Allegro, line 132. 

104. Musceus: son of Orpheus, and reputed to be the 
earliest of Greek poets. 

105-8. Orpheus, etc.: See note U Allegro, lines 145-50. 

110-15. The story of Cambuscan bold: the "Tartar king" 
who, with the others mentioned in the passage, appeared in 
Chaucer's unfinished Squire's Tale. Virtuous ring means one 
of magic properties. 

120. More is meant than meets the ear: as is the case in 
allegorical poems, such as Spenser's Faerie Queene. 

124. The Attic Boy: Cephalus, the youthful lover of 
Aurora. 

134. Sylvan: Sylvanus, the God of fields and forests. 

147-50. Strange, mysterious dreams: The Cambridge 
edition of Milton's poems offers the following paraphrase of 
this passage: "Let some mysterious dream move to and fro 
at the wings of sleep, unrolling its pictures, until they fall 
upon my eyelids." 

156. Pale: an inclosure, in this case of a cloister used by 
students. 

157. Embowed: arched. 

159. Storied: with pictures illustrating Bible stories. 
170. Spell: reflect, thoughtfully upon. 



POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 

ODE TO A UTUMN 

(Page 349) 

Keats writes from Winchester, September 22, 1819: "How 
beautiful the season is now — How fine the air. A temper- 
ate sharpness about it. ... I never liked stubble fields 



POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 425 

so much as now — Aye, better than the chilly green of the 
spring. Somehow, a stubble-field looks warm in the same 
way that some pictures look warm. This struck me so much 
in my Sunday walk that I composed upon it." 

ODE TO THE WEST WIND 

(Page 35;?) 

From Shelley himself we learn under what circumstances 
he came to compose this ode: " This poem was conceived and 
chiefly written in the wood that skirts the Arno, near Flor- 
ence, and on a day when that tempestuous wind, whose tem- 
perature is at once mild and animating, was collecting the 
vapors which pour down the autumnal rains. They began, 
as I foresaw, at sunset with a violent tempest of hail and 
rain, attended by that magnificent thunder and lightning 
peculiar to the Cisalpine regions. 

" The phenomenon alluded to at the conclusion of the third 
stanza is well known to naturalists. The vegetation at the 
bottom of the sea, of rivers, and of lakes, sympathizes with 
that of the land in the change of seasons, and is conse- 
quently influenced by the winds which announce it." 

The construction of this ode, which is by some considered 
perfect beyond that of any other English lyric, repays care- 
ful study. Each stanza we find to be made up of three-line 
units linked together by rime, — the terza rima used by Dante, 
—each stanza being closed, however, by a couplet. The in- 
vocation, covering three stanzas, is not only descriptive but 
interpretative, and we note especially at the end of the 
first stanza the power of the west wind not simply to de- 
stroy, but in destroying to preserve life for its resurrection 
in the spring. With the fourth stanza the ideas of the in- 
vocation are applied personally, but in a conditional, tenta- 
tive way, referring back to the three forces of wind, cloud, 
and wave. The fifth stanza completes the identification of 
the poet with the spirit of the west wind in intense, pas- 
sionate lines, and then, returning to the idea of spring resur- 
rection, speaks the hope of a future for his own message to 
mankind. 

ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE 

(Page 354) 

Keats's biographer, Lord Houghton, tells of bow in the 
spring of 1819 a nightingale built her nest in a near-by tree. 



426 NOTES 



One morning after breakfast Keats went out under a plum 
tree, and spent two or three hours composing the first draft 
of this poem. The death of his brother during the previous 
winter had greatly affected him, and Haydon, connecting 
that fact with this ode, writes: ". . . as we were one even- 
ing walking in the Kilburn meadows he repeated it to me, 
before he put it to paper, in a low, tremulous undertone 
which affected me extremely." 

The subtle, intangible power of this poem comes best to us 
when we read it aloud sympathetically. We do not lose, 
then, the sounds, exquisitely appropriate to the sense, of 
such a line as the seventh of the second stanza, or the melan- 
choly effect of the successive long syllables of line five, stanza 
three. In many a phrase Keats expresses with final perfec- 
tion an intangibly delicate idea; never more happily, how- 
ever, than in the last two lines of the seventh stanza, pic- 
turing the world where lives the spirit of Romance. 

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN 

(Page 357) 

Composed in the spring of 1819, four years after the son- 
net on Chapman's Homer. The specimens of Greek art 
known to Keats were the Elgin marbles in the British 
Museum, works that Keats, by nature, was peculiarly fitted 
to appreciate. In the garden of Holland House there is a 
vase of weather-beaten marble that, it is thought, may have 
been the inspiration of this poem. 

ODE TO DUTY 

(Page 358) 

"This ode is on the model of Gray's Ode to Adversity, 
which is copied from Horace's Ode to Fortune. Many and 
many a time have I been twitted by my wife and sister for 
having forgotten this dedication of myself to the stern law- 
giver." — Wordsworth's note. 

At first sight it might seem that the moral ideas contained 
in this ode are not appropriate for poetry, but that they 
belong rather in a prose essay. Yet this is after all only a 
superficial conclusion, for Wordsworth is not merely ex- 
plaining an abstract theory of duty: the matter touches him 
deeply, and his feeling is stronger even than his thought 



POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 427 

This it is — the sense of personal emotion — that marks this 
ode as essentially a lyric poem. Though the invocation is 
abstract, even that is full of imaginative suggestiveness. 
The personal element enters frankly with the fourth stanza, 
and by the end of the poem has developed into intense 
earnestness of feeling. 

INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY 

(Page 360) 

" This was composed during my residence at Town-End, 
Grasmere. Two years at least passed between the writing of 
the first stanzas and the remaining part. To the attentive 
and competent reader the whole sufficiently explains itself; 
but there may be no harm in adverting here to particular 
feelings or experiences of my own mind on which the struc- 
ture of the poem partly rests. Nothing was more difficult 
for me in childhood than to admit the notion of death as a 
state applicable to my own being. I have said elsewhere — 

A simple child. 
That lightly draws its breath 
And feels its life in every limb. 
What should it know of death! — 

But it was not so much from feelings of animal vivacity that 
my difficulty came as from a sense of the indomitableness of 
the Spirit within me. I used to brood over the stories of 
Enoch and Elijah, and almost to persuade myself that, what- 
ever might become of others, I should be translated, in some- 
thing of the same way, to heaven." — Wordsworth's note. 

The poem is elaborate in structure, and can be read with 
greatest pleasure after we have formed a clear notion of the 
ideas on which it is based. Connecting the vivid imagination 
of childhood with the idea of the soul's immortality, Words- 
worth passes in review the successive stages of man's de- 
velopment from infancy to maturity, showing at each point 
the relation that he has or ought to have to the immortal 
world of which he is a part. The central idea, expressed in 
its simplicity, is found in section V. But when we fully 
grasp the meaning of those first lines, it is clear why they 
do not belong at the beginning of a poem: the mind would 
be unprepared for them, and the words, because too ab- 
ruptly stated, would confuse and perplex. Wordsworth 



428 NOTES 

prepares us by leading up, through the first stanzas, to a 
question, to which the fifth is a direct, condensed answer. 
In later life, he says, we come to feel that there was a vision- 
ary j°y> experienced in early childhood, that now has passed 
away. 

Where is it now, the glory and the dream? 

The question prepares us for the fifth stanza, the germ, as 
has been said, of the whole poem. Stanza VI shows how 
through the substitution of earthly pleasures man comes to 
forget his heavenly heritage, and stanza VII how the imagi- 
native play of childhood actually anticipates the more prosaic 
activities of maturity. The next stanza begins with an apos- 
trophe, a most imaginative one, but one so long that if we 
do not realize that it is all leading to its summing up, 
" Thou little child," we lose its significance. In the latter 
part of the stanza we see how far man can leave behind him 
the unconscious happiness of his childish life. Then comes 
the reaction, in stanza IX, in which the grown man finds 
in the remembrances of his childhood spirit the basis of a 
hopeful interpretation of the present and future life. The 
tenth stanza brings us back to the joyful pictures of the first 
part, but now instead of starting doubtful questions they 
confirm belief in man's connection with eternal life, " which 
having been must ever be." Then comes the final stanza, 
showing the spirit of wisdom with which the mature man 
faces the sober conditions of his life. 

Such, then, is the outline of ideas on which the poem 
rests; but with the grasp of these ideas, appreciation of the 
whole begins rather than ends. In every part it is found 
that the thought, even when abstract, is expressed in the 
language of pictures and images, in the simple, satisfying 
phrase that haunts the memory. The thread of thoughts, to 
be sure, binds all together, but there are passages of il- 
luminating imagery or lucid diction which may be enjoyed 
wholly for themselves. Even the underlying thought is an 
atmosphere rather than an argument. Wordsworth himself 
says of it that though we can all bear testimony to " that 
dreamlike vividness, and splendor which invests objects of 
sight in childhood," nevertheless the conclusion he bases on 
the experience " is far too shadowy a notion to be recom- 
mended to faith, as more than an element in our instincts of 
immortality." Above all things we should not try to force 
our enjoyment of Wordsworth, either in this poem or in his 



POEMS IN THE FORM OF ODES 429 

works generally. Our regard for a thing changes with our 
own experience, and what we care little for now we may re- 
gard highly hereafter. But meantime, so far as this poem 
is concerned, we cannot do better than come to familiar 
terms with the poem through repeated reading, particularly 
of those passages that please us most. 



SUGGESTED STUDIES 

METER 

We do not study meter merely for the purpose of 
learning how to "scan." Why then? Verse is like 
music, in that it is written not for the eye but for the 
ear; and only as we express the music of the poem by 
sympathetic reading, do we really know what the 
author wrote. If others wish to share our interpreta- 
tion, we pronounce the sounds aloud; otherwise we 
hear with our inward ear, and make no sound — es- 
sential^ it is reading aloud in either case. The first 
reason for studying meter, then, is to aid in reading 
aloud, to cultivate a sense for the strong beat and the 
delicate variations of verse, and to realize how they 
express the poet's intent. This requires " ear," in 
which respect some have a natural advantage over 
others ; yet every one can improve his power of mental 
hearing, and find added pleasure in poetry as a result. 
In dealing with the unfamiliar phenomena of sound, 
new terms must be found to make intercourse intel- 
ligible. These terms, the vocabulary of verse music, 
are the means of study; sympathetic reading is the 
end. 

431 



4,32 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

I. The Foot. Kinds. — In English verse four kinds 
of metrical feet are recognized, as follows: 

Iambic: 2Li, as in the word defy. 

Trochaic: 1^1, as in the word fortune. 

Anapestic: w ~ ', as in the word interfere. 

Dactylic : ' w ^ , as in the word mightily. 
Other combinations of accented and unaccented 
syllables are possible, but it is unnecessary to regard 
them as separate kinds of feet: they can better be re- 
garded as irregular examples of one of these four 
kinds. A single line may be so irregular that from 
it alone it would be unsafe to judge of the meter of the 
poem in which it stands. But in a number of lines in 
succession these irregularities will be corrected, and 
the prevailing kind of foot will be felt as an underly- 
ing beat or rhythm throbbing through the whole 
structure of the verse. 

Study. — Find two poems prevailingly iambic in 
beat; trochaic, etc. Judging from twenty random 
examples, can you say that one kind of foot markedly 
preponderates over the others in usage? Is any 
kind notable for infrequency? Taking the odes as 
one group, and the lighter poems in playful mood as 
another, observe whether there is noteworthy contrast 
as to the variety of meters in the two groups. Is there 
any difference in the variety of meters used by any 
two poets, as Wordsworth and Browning? Does the 
choice of meter seem particularly appropriate in any 
of the poems examined? From the poems written in 
any given foot, distinguish between those that call 



METER 433 

naturally for slow, impressive reading, and those that 
are best read with quicker, sharper accent. 

Irregularities. — Absolute metrical regularity would 
be likely to cause tiresome monotony in the sound of 
the verse. Freshness and variety result from delicate 
gradations of accent, from the omission or addition of 
unaccented syllables, or from the substitution of feet 
and sometimes of lines of other meters. Some of the 
ways of bringing metrical variety into verse are as 
follows : 

1. By the addition of light syllables at the begin- 
ning or end of a normally complete line. When the 
extra syllable is thus added to an accented syllable at 
the end of a line, the resulting light ending is desig- 
nated as " feminine." 

We carved.not a line, and we raised not a stone, 
But we left him alone in his glo(ry). 

Underneath a new-old sign 

Sipping beverage divine, 

(And) pledging with contented smack . . . 

2. By the omission of a light syllable, sometimes 
two, at the beginning or end of a line of verse. 

Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward. ( ~ ) 

One more Unfortunate 
Weary of breath. ( w - ) 

( ~ ~ ) Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone 
( ~ ) And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him. 

3. By the substitution of one foot for another. Tro- 
chaic feet are often substituted for iambic, especially 



434 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

at the beginning of a line, with a resulting effect of 
vigor. Iambic and anapestic feet are readily ex- 
changed, as are trochaic and dactylic. 

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour. 

And high and low the influence know 

But where is County Guy? 

In reading verse sympathetically we adjust ourselves 
unconsciously to these variations from the strictly nor- 
mal meter. More than that, there are passages in 
which the long vowel sounds and pauses required by 
the sense, and the accents required by the verse, do 
not exactly coincide: in these cases we adjust the one 
kind of stress to the other, also unconsciously, with 
the final result that lines otherwise monotonously 
regular become flexibly harmonious. 

The sun upon the lake is low, 
The wild birds hush their song. 

The sonnet of Wordsworth's beginning " It is a 
beauteous evening," or the first stanza of Tennyson's 
Break, break, break, if read sympathetically, will il- 
lustrate these effects of musical variation admirably. 
Study. — Read aloud The Burial of Sir John Moore 
at Corunna and The Soldier's Dream, both in ana- 
pestic verse, and determine which has the greater 
flexibility: note how the meter emphasizes the dif- 
ference in mood between the poems. Observe how few 
are the strictly normal lines in Shelley's The Indian 
Serenade, yet how naturally the voice adapts itself to 



METER 435 

the changes, and so reveals the melodious quality of 
the poem. Determine which lines of Wordsworth's 
The Daffodils are irregular in accent or in stress, and 
mark them; then read the poem aloud, observing how 
the slow and the quick lines express the changing 
thought of the poem. 

II. The Line. — The number of feet in a line, quite 
as much as the kind of feet, determines the metrical 
effect of a given poem. Lines of different length, 
from two feet up, are designated as Dimeter, Trim- 
eter, Tetrameter, Pentameter, Hexameter, etc. Al- 
though theoretically any combination of kind and 
number of feet is possible, in English verse, as a mat- 
ter of fact, the ear accepts certain combinations (such 
as iambic tetrameter) which are therefore frequently 
used, and rejects others (like dactylic pentameter) 
which are, therefore, scarcely ever found. 

It is interesting to observe that eight foot lines (as 
illustrated by those in Tennyson's Lochsley Hall or 
Poe's The Raven) have a strong tendency to break in 
the middle, and thus to become virtually two lines of 
four feet each. Similarly, seven foot lines, like those 
in Byron's Youth and Age, are easily read as two* 
lines of four and three feet — practically the ballad 
meter. Six foot lines, too, such as are found in 
Browning's Up at a Villa or in the several stanzas of 
Shelley's To a Skylark, can generally be broken into 
two lines of three feet each. When there are five 
iambic feet to a line, however, the ear does not always 
require a pause, and when' it does require one, the 



436 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

pause may be put freely at any part of the line. This 
pause is called the " caesufa," and its flexibility in 
iambic pentameter goes far to account for the variety 
of effect found in blank verse, and for its consequent 
popularity in long narrative poems and dramas in 
English. 

Study. — Compose a line or two of verse, and note 
whether the metrical form chosen is frequently found 
in the poems of this volume. Note how certain stanza 
forms are made by combining lines of different 
lengths into a " pattern." Does the rime scheme 
emphasize the pattern of the stanza? How? Com- 
paring several stanzas of short dactylic lines, Byron's 
When We Two Parted and Scott's Gathering Song 
and Where Shall the Lover Rest, observe how natu- 
rally two lines can be read as one longer one ; and note 
how this effect is aided by the occasional running 
together of light syllables at the end of one line and 
the beginning of the next. Illustrate the flexibility 
of blank verse caesura from passages in Sohrab and 
Rustum. Observe that the sense sometimes requires a 
more marked pause at the caesura than at the end of 
the line. Show how it is possible in reading aloud to 
indicate these pauses without losing the effect of the 
line-by-line structure of blank verse. 

SPECIAL SUBJECTS IN POETRY 

I. Nature. — A very striking feature of English 
poetry is the part that Nature plays in it — and small 



SPECIAL SUBJECTS IN POETRY 437 

wonder, when it plays so large a part in life. There 
is this difference, however: in life, the impressions 
from nature stream in on us, are often broken and 
confused; whereas in poetry only one aspect appears 
at a time, and leaves a harmonious singleness of effect. 
This is easily illustrated. 

One mood, the simplest in which we can approach 
nature, is that of pure physical enjoyment, like that 
expressed in A Boy's Song, by Hogg. A similar joy 
is felt by the man of strength in wrestling with the 
northeast wind, as Kingsley, in his stirring ode, shows 
so well. One step removed from this is the physical 
pleasure transferred from the actual experience to 
the memory, the best example of which is Words- 
worth's poem on the daffodils. In another class of 
lyrics, some aspect of nature not only rouses the 
feelings but attracts the mind, setting up a chain 
of reflection . leading back to the ever-present 
problem of man's own destiny. Of such poems 
Shelley's ode To a Skylark will always stand as 
one of the greatest examples. Many others read- 
ily come to mind, notably Burns's address To a 
Mouse. 

In some lyrics, however, the attitude of mind is 
reversed, and instead of man's responding to the in- 
fluence of nature, nature seems to adapt itself to his 
mood, expressing it in external symbol and deepen- 
ing it by reaction. Break, break, break, by Tennyson, 
comes at once to mind as an example, for the poet 
approaches the sea with the mood of grief strong 



438 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

upon him; and finds his feeling reflected by the un- 
conscious sympathy of the scene. In the Stanzas 
Written in D ejection Near Naples, again, the mild- 
ness of the soft; warm day expresses perfectly the 
quality of Shelley's mood. And note how the land- 
scape, in Burns's poem Highland Mary, reflects the 
contrast of his own feeling, first at the time of court- 
ship, later of bereavement. 

Does all this indicate, then, that the feeling for 
nature is inherent in all poetry? By no means: in a 
large body of poetry, just as in a large part of life, 
nature either plays no part at all, or else is treated 
superficially, with conventional rather than real in- 
terest. Not very much of this last attitude toward 
nature is represented in this volume, but Pope's Rape 
of the Loch will offer sufficient illustration. During 
the so-called Age of Pope it was the philosophical, 
the social, the intellectual aspects of life, rather than 
the human, the personal, the emotional, that interested 
the poets. And since in that life nature played an 
insignificant part, in the poetry of the period its im- 
portance is no greater. Later came a time when in- 
terest centered on the individual man — his emotions 
and his destiny — and then nature became once more 
important as an influence shaping man's inner life and 
a means of interpreting that life to others. The feel- 
ing for nature thus became associated with the ideal 
of Democracy in the so-called Romantic Revival at 
the beginning of the nineteenth century. The con- 
nection can be traced in all the great English poets of 



SPECIAL SUBJECTS fN POETRY 439 

the period, but most notably in the case of Words- 
worth. 

Study. — Compare the old ballads with the later 
narrative poems, to see whether nature plays a more 
important part in one than in the other. Illustrate 
concentrated singleness of effect in Tennyson's The 
Eagle or Wordsworth's Upon Westminster Bridge. 
In these poems we see vivid pictures of some scene in 
nature: contrast Shelley's To the Moon, or Keats's 
Ode to a Nightingale, observing that the appeal to the 
eye is less distinct in the poems dominated by strong 
feeling. Observe the use of nature as a parable in 
Campbell's The River of Life, Keats's The Human 
Seasons, and Browning's Prospice, and note how the 
interest is not in the scene for its own sake, but in the 
thoughts for which it stands. Note how the scene in 
Gray's Elegy, when once described, is felt as a har- 
monious atmosphere throughout the entire poem. Can 
Burns's Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon be con- 
trasted with Collins's Ode Written in 1746 to illustrate 
direct as opposed to conventional language in the de- 
scription of nature? To which class does Scott's 
Hunting Song belong? How far have the aspects of 
nature — scenes, birds, and flowers — brought out in 
these poems come within your own experience, 
and how far do they describe unfamiliar things? 
Do you feel any scenes to be typically national or 
local ? 

II. Death. — Most of the poems dealing with the 
subject of death express the sense of bereavement; a 



440 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

few express the poet's feeling as he contemplates the 
end of his own life. It is interesting to compare such 
of these last as are included in this volume — a sonnet 
by Keats and the last six in the group entitled Poems 
on the Problem of Life. With the exception of 
Bryant's Thanatopsis, each was written near the close 
of the poet's own life., and has a kind of autobiograph- 
ical value. Of course the personal element is sub- 
ordinated, as it is in all works of art, to the universal : 
the poet speaks not for himself alone, but for all those 
of like nature; and he is concerned that his expression 
be not only true but permanently beautiful. Never- 
theless there is large scope left for the expression of 
personality, and in putting the poems side by side we 
may gain an insight into certain typical moods with 
which men approach the end of life. 

At one extreme is Keats, the eager lover of life and 
the beauty of the world. Under the figure of a lover 
facing separation from his beloved, he expresses, in 
the sonnet beginning " Bright Star ! would I were 
steadfast as thou art," a passionate yearning to re- 
tain permanently the exquisite privileges of the world 
he actually knows. Landor's calm reveals a very dif- 
ferent nature: the world is beautiful, but its warmth 
grows less with advancing age, and he faces the end 
of life with neither longing nor regret. Clough has 
a less personal feeling: his days have been perplexed 
by the insoluble mysteries of life, and now, as they 
draw to a close, he follows the impulse of his heart in 
turning to the hopeful solution — one that he hopes a 



SPECIAL SUBJECTS IN POETRY 441 

larger vision may confirm. In contrast to this is the 
feeling expressed in Stevenson's Requiem, that the 
world is a place for joyous work and play, from the 
manful exertion of which one turns at last with a sense 
of gratitude to his well-deserved rest. In Browning's 
Prospice enters the note, not found in the foregoing 
poems, of positive anticipation of a hereafter: death 
itself a struggle, to be approached not only with the 
confident courage that every strong man knows, but 
with the sustaining conviction that beyond it is the 
love that he began to know in his married life on 
earth. Finally comes Christina Rossetti's Up-hill, in 
which we feel that the confidence expressed is not so 
much courage as serenity, the rest and refreshment 
of the inn being the goal for which the arduous jour- 
ney of life is but the preparation. 

Whether or not the moods of these several poems 
are fairly interpreted in this brief survey, it clarifies 
our conception of " imagery " in poetry to observe how 
the different attitudes of the poems are expressed in 
each case figuratively. With the exception of the 
Requiem, which brings to the mind two pictures, a 
sailor and a hunter arriving home, each poem con- 
ceives of the relation of death to life under the form 
of a single figure, dwelt upon sufficiently to make the 
idea tangible, yet not so as to cloud the subtler mean- 
ing underneath. 

Study. — In the poems grouped under Poems on 
Bereavement and Death, note that some, like High- 
land Mary, express personal grief; others, like Glen- 



442 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

Almain, the Narrow Glen, impersonal loss, — with a 
wide range of feeling between. Toward which ex- 
treme would Captain! My Captain! be placed? 
Both Landor and Browning have poems expressing 
bereavement: do they reflect the same differences of 
personality noted in the poems regarding the end of 
their own lives? Do the poems here grouped seem 
to express the first poignant sense of loss, or the 
calmer feeling of later reflection? Does the answer 
point to a reason for their lasting beauty? Is the 
metrical quality of these poems, taken as a whole, 
especially appropriate ? 

INDIVIDUAL POETS 

The results of the following studies can be at best 
only fragmentary, for they are based on but a small 
portion of the author's work; yet if allowance be 
made for this, and the conclusions be held tentatively, 
it is always possible to correct them as increasing 
knowledge and experience suggest. Everything that 
follows, then, is to be accepted only as suggestion, 
subject to the possibility of later revision. 

I. Browning. — It is noteworthy, first of all, that 
some of Browning's poems are narrative, some lyrical, 
— that there is a large range of interest in them. 
A glance at the narrative poems reveals the fact that 
all those in this volume relate incidents of war or 
siege. Was Browning primarily a singer of military 
exploits? Apart -from the fact that the coincidence 



INDIVIDUAL POETS 443 

is accidental in this case, closer observation shows 
that the military scene is not of chief concern to 
Browning, but merely the setting of his action; that 
the attention is on the individual man — how he con- 
ducts himself at a time that tests the quality of a 
man's soul. We think of Herve Riel and Pheidippides 
not so much as the heroes of exciting incidents as the 
single-hearted men that they are, larger than their ac- 
tions, great enough to do great deeds simply. In point 
of style it is first to be noted that the action itself, the 
story, is graphically portrayed, always vivid to the 
eye and ear. Furthermore, it is often dramatic, for 
the poet does more than tell the facts of his tale — 
he imagines himself as an actor in it, and interprets 
the situation through that actor's personality. The 
reader thus becomes for the time being himself an- 
other character, and so discovers new capacities in 
himself to feel and will. This broadening of the 
imaginative life is jDerhaps the chief service that 
literature renders the sympathetic reader. 

The lyrics, it will be seen at once, have much in 
common with the narrative poems. They too imply, 
if not a story, yet a situation, in which a human being 
speaks his thought. The poet's imagination carries 
him into the heart of each new scene: now he is a 
Cavalier, singing death and destruction to the in- 
solent foes of the king; now a modern patriot, la- 
menting the desertion of a trusted leader in free- 
dom's cause; now an Italian person of quality, medi- 
tating on the pleasures of city life. 



444 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

As is natural^ the style in which these poems are 
expressed is one of abounding vigor. Browning 
writes from a rich vocabulary, and he uses it freely, 
not hesitating to employ an expressive word because 
it might be thought too homely for the polite usage 
of poetry. There is a corresponding fulness of 
allusion, the outpouring of an active mind and a 
well-stocked memory. And so compelling is the 
force of the thought that it is impatient, sometimes, 
of the restraint of careful grammatical structure, and 
expresses itself in broken, chaotic sentence forms. 
Similarly, it is vigor and strength, sometimes rude 
strength, that characterizes the meter of Browning's 
verse, rather than smoothness and delicacy of lyric 
flow. But though this is perhaps the characteristic 
effect, it does not blind the discerning to the fact 
that some lyrics, like Evelyn Hope and The Lost 
Leader, are notable for the delicate perfection of 
their musical quality. 

Study. — Which of the poems included in this vol- 
ume seem so typical of Browning that one would not 
imagine them written by another? Are there any 
that do not bear so obvious a stamp of personality? 
Are the poems of more broken sentence form the 
ones that contain the more frequent allusions? Is 
there any natural explanation? Is there any poet 
whose work seems especially different from Brown- 
ing's in spirit and form? Illustrate. In the Com- 
plete Works of Browning will be found a group of 
poems called Dramatic Lyrics: do these poems con- 



INDIVIDUAL POETS 445 

firm the definition of " dramatic " given above ? 
Does Browning seem to confine himself to a small 
number of meters, or does he use a great variety? 
The poems in this volume indicate the answer, which 
may be confirmed by looking over a few more poems 
in his complete works. 

II. Wordsworth. — The name of Wordsworth is 
always connected with the idea of " nature " in poetry. 
It is not surprising, therefore, that we find that 
Wordsworth contributes a large share to the " Poems 
on the World of Nature," and that throughout prac- 
tically all the other poems here included nature is 
felt to be a pervading interest. Yet it is not in 
nature for its own sake, its intrinsic charm and 
beauty alone, that Wordsworth is interested. Poems 
like the Ode to Duty and the sonnet beginning Mil- 
ton! Thou slwuldst be living at this hour show the 
poet's strong interest in human character, in high 
moral and spiritual standards of life. It is the 
relation of the two — man and nature — that is the 
subject of the greater part of Wordsworth's poetry. 

Briefly stated, it was Wordsworth's belief that 
sympathy with nature, and a wise understanding of 
her teachings, should be a leading influence in the 
development of man's highest nature. This under- 
standing sympathy comes gradually: first the youth- 
ful sense of glad joy in physical contact with nature 
— walking, skating, climbing; then the maturer pleas- 
ure of remembered beauty, such as is expressed in 
The Daffodils; finally the contemplation of the deeper 



446 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

meaning of nature's lessons, the insight they give us 
into higher conceptions of man's destiny. Words- 
worth applies this belief to the humble country people 
who have been brought up among scenes of natural 
beauty, and attributes their open-hearted simplicity 
and homely devoutness to the influence of their natural 
surroundings. The poems called The Education of 
Nature and To the Highland Girl of Inversneyde are 
the direct embodiment of this conviction. 

It is thus easily seen how Wordsworth's interest in 
nature connects itself with his belief in the higher 
meaning of Democracy — based on the intrinsic worth 
of every human soul, no matter how humble the sta- 
tion in which it may be found. Not that alone, for the 
emphasis is rather on the other side: in simple, rural 
life normal human instincts of feeling and expression 
are likely to find a more free and natural develop- 
ment than in the complex life of the cities. To 
the experience of this simple, rural life, therefore, 
Wordsworth turns when he wishes to find sub- 
jects of truest human interest. Such is the signifi- 
cance of poems like The Reverie of Poor Susan, 
Lucy Gray, and Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman. 
One who asks why it is that the humblest soul is 
felt to have such inherent worth comes at once to 
the central point of Wordsworth's belief, — in the 
immortal part of man's nature, his relation to the 
divine, eternal world. This belief finds direct ex- 
pression in the Ode on Intimations of Immortality 
from Recollections of Early Childhood. 



INDIVIDUAL POETS 447 

Consistent with this attitude toward life is Words- 
worth's conviction regarding the language of poetry. 
It is in simple words, the direct language of every- 
day life, that sincere feeling is best expressed. In 
declaring this belief, Wordsworth took issue with the 
prevailing standards of the preceding century, which 
seemed to him unnaturally artificial. In such per- 
fect poems as She Dwelt among the Untrodden Ways 
and The Reaper he best illustrated his own theory. 

Study. — In reading the notes to Wordsworth's 
poems, observe how directly his works are the re- 
sults of individual incidents in his life. Does this 
fact limit their interest to that of a record of ac- 
cidental circumstances? How could the matter be 
illustrated by such a poem as To the Highland Girl 
of Inversneyde? In Wordsworth's " nature " poems, 
are the impressions generally clear-cut, vivid, or are 
they indistinct, as though felt rather than seen, under 
the strong spell of a mood ? Point out passages in the 
Ode on Intimations of Immortality illustrating three 
ways of enjoying nature, — experiencing the joy of 
physical exhilaration, finding pleasure in the beauty 
of natural scenes, and gaining philosophical serenity 
in the contemplation of nature's laws. Do Words- 
worth's temperament and poetic ideals help to ex- 
plain the fact that he has chosen the sonnet form 
for many of his finest poems, whereas certain poets, 
— Browning, for example, — have not? What kind 
of metrical foot seems to prevail in Wordsworth's 
poems? Point out passages in this volume illustrat- 



448 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

ing the so-called " poetic diction " which Wordsworth 
wishes to supplant with a simpler, directer style. 

III. Keats. — There is a word that always rises to 
the mind with the mention of the poetry of Keats, 
and that is — " beauty." This is not merely because 
of the fact that his own poems are beautiful, but 
because, in his own thought, beauty in nature, in 
life, in art, is the sign of the highest perfection, 
and the enjoyment of it the most exquisite human 
pleasure. The simplest realization of beauty comes 
with a mood of passive acceptance, the spirit of quiet 
enjoyment expressed in the sonnet To One Who Has 
Been Long in City Pent. But to this purely emo- 
tional pleasure is added sometimes the delight of in- 
tellectual appreciation, the play of the mind over 
beautiful objects, the tracing of happy emotions to 
their source. It is in such a mood that Keats dwells 
on the loveliness of form and action preserved in 
the figures on the ancient Grecian urn. Art, he 
finds, has done what life is unable to accomplish — 
has caught a fleeting moment of perfect beauty, and 
made it permanent forever. This aspect of beauty 
— its fleeting, transitory nature — explains another 
mood expressed in the poetry of Keats, — the passion- 
ate clinging to the present moment of perfection, 
the poignant sorrow at seeing beauty fade and die. 
In the Ode to a Nightingale Keats tries to escape 
from the sad realization of the conditions of this 
world, 

Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; 



INDIVIDUAL POETS 449 

and in his last sonnet, Bright Star! Would I Were 
Steadfast as Thou Art, his exquisite pleasure in 
the warmth of human love turns to pain at the 
thought of impending separation. 

But this shadow that is ever ready to fall over 
the contemplation of present beauty is not to be 
found in the world of the imagination. That, it is 
needless to say, is a world remote in time and spirit 
from the realistic conditions of our present life. 
And so the stories of Keats carry us back to the 
days and scenes of Greek mythology, or, as in The 
Eve of St. Agnes, to the romantic atmosphere of 
mediaeval life. Whether the theme be story or song, 
beauty of form is, of course, the appropriate expres- 
sion of the mind of Keats. To trace this beauty in 
detail is one of the pleasures of reading his poems. 
Most obvious among such details of beauty are the 
descriptive touches in the stories, the imaginative 
flashes in the lyrics, phrased all with final perfection, 
— the delicate musical beauty of stories and lyrics 
both. Another aspect of expression, however, ought 
not to be overlooked — the orderly development of 
thought and mood, the harmony between a poem's 
substance and the form of line and stanza chosen 
to contain it. In view of this it is wholly natural, 
therefore, and no mere accident, that in looking for 
the most perfect examples of formal odes and sonnets 
we should turn instinctively to the work of Keats. 

Study. — As an example of narrative art, note how, 
in reading The Eve of St. Agnes, one is first made 



450 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

accustomed to the setting of the story,— -the castle, 
the guests, the mediaeval atmosphere, — before the 
attention centers on the principal characters of the 
tale. Observe, too, by what gradual steps Porphyro's 
plan rises and develops in his own mind, and finally 
is consented to by Angela. Contrasted with the re- 
strained, simple, " classic " treatment of Sohrab and 
Rustum, what features of spirit, ornament, and dic- 
tion in The Eve of St. Agnes illustrate " romantic " 
treatment? In The Mermaid Tavern and the sonnet 
On First Looking into Chapman's Homer, note the 
evidence of Keats's literary enthusiasms. Connect 
the thought of the sonnet On the Terror of Death with 
the actual circumstances in the life of Keats. Ob- 
serve how the thought in the " Italian " sonnet, On 
First Looking into Chapman's Homer, is divided into 
two parts of eight and six lines ; whereas the 
" Shaksperian " sonnet, On the Terror of Death, is 
divided into three quatrains and a couplet. Illustrate 
this harmony of content and metrical form in the 
stanzas of The Eve of St. Agnes and of the odes. 

IV. Shelley. — It happens that all of Shelley's 
poems included in this volume are lyrics — that no 
narratives appear among them. This in itself is sig- 
nificant, for although Shelley has indeed written nar- 
rative poems, even these are not in the true sense 
stories, but rather idealistic visions held together by 
a slight narrative thread. It also appears that Shelley 
does not contribute to the group of deliberately re- 
flective poems " on the problem of life," or to the 



INDIVIDUAL POETS 451 

lighter poems " in playful mood." These facts have 
their explanation. Shelley's poems are an expression 
of personal emotion, the reaction of a sensitive spirit 
upon the conditions of human life. There is, to be 
sure, an element of reflective meditation in the poems, 
but there is a stronger sense of deep feeling, and it 
is the intensity of this that leaves the final impres- 
sion. And though the poems have grace and deli- 
cacy too, these qualities are not, as in playful verse, 
in the service of whimsicality or sentiment, but ex- 
pressive rather of sensitive tenderness. 

It is natural, therefore, to find that among the 
best of Shelley's poems are certain exquisite lyrics 
of love — such as The Indian Serenade, or One Word 
is Too Often Profaned. Other poems, addressed to 
the members of his intimate circle, idealize the rela- 
tion of sympathetic friendship. The Invitation and 
The Recollection are among the best examples of 
these. The dominating mood of certain other poems 
is that of longing, in which enters a note of sad 
realization of the hopelessness of it. A Dream of 
the Unknown is such a poem, and it is typical of 
Shelley's mind that the wild garden that he describes 
with such delicacy should be a dream phantom of 
" visionary flowers." It is but a step to poems of 
another class, those dominated by a reaction of re- 
signed despair. Examples come readily to mind, 
the most notable among them, perhaps, being the 
Stanzas Written in Dejection Near Naples. 

In their several ways all these divisions of Shel- 



452 SUGGESTED STUDIES 

ley's poems express the same mind, — a spirit yearn- 
ing passionately for the ideal, willing rather to suf- 
fer disillusionment and despair than to lower in any 
degree his high standard of perfection. But the 
ideals he cherishes are not abstract; he longs to 
realize practically all his hopes, and, in the face of 
disappointment, even his dreams are prophecies of 
final fulfilment. So it is that the skylark directs him 
to a perfect ideal of poetic attainment, and the west 
wind bears a personal suggestion of hope for the 
final acceptance of his poetic message. 

Study. — Observe whether the poems which Shelley 
addressed to friends — The Invitation, The Recollec- 
tion, and To a Lady, With a Guitar — leave an im- 
pression of real people and places, or of a land of 
imagination. Do Shelley's poems seem to be 
" autobiographic " in the sense that many of Words- 
worth's are? What is meant by the "subjective" 
interest in Shelley's poetry, as compared with the 
"objective" interest of such a poet as Campbell? 
Does the verse accent in Shelley's poems, compared 
with that in the poems of Scott, seem to fall with 
regularity? How does this matter affect the sound 
of Shelley's poems when read aloud? Why are the 
poems of Burns on the whole more suitable to be 
set to music than those of Shelley? 



GENERAL SURVEY 

It is much to know poems, to know them well and 
to care for them. In that respect they are like friends 
— the more we see of them, the more we find in 
common. But friends have another interest for us 
beside the personal regard we have for them: we like 
to compare them, to note what interests they have in 
common, what makes them " different " from others, 
what part of our own life they share. And in doing 
this we feel that we understand not only them better, 
but ourselves as well — that we make contact with life, 
which is a broader thing than knowing only people. 
So it is with poems. Taken one at a time, they are 
poems, perhaps With some special appeal to us, yet 
special poems still. Compared with one another, 
they go to make up poetry, a larger thing, because 
they have one quality in common: art — whatever that 
may mean. 

There is nothing to be gained by trying to define 
" poetry " or " art " now: perhaps the mere definition 
will never interest us. But a simpler inquiry is both 
interesting and profitable ; namely, to set side by side 
before us a few poems that we already know, and to 
observe what they have in common. If we are suc- 
cessful, and then we go on adding other poems to the 
453 



454 GENERAL SURVEY 

number, when we pause at last we shall find that we 
have indeed arrived, unconsciously, at some clear ideas 
concerning poetry in the larger sense. For such an 
inquiry the poems included in this volume are well 
adapted, and the groupings in which they appear are 
convenient. Narrative poems are best to begin with, 
and the simplest of these, the group of old English 
ballads, afford a natural starting-point for our study. 

OLD BALLADS 

It is impossible to read several old ballads in suc- 
cession without being struck by the directness with 
which they go straight to the heart of the story they 
tell. There is movement, action, from the very first 
stanza, and more than that, action that leads un- 
erringly to the central interest of the tale — nothing 
roundabout, secondary, indirect. Johnie Armstrong 
is a good example, but any one will serve. This 
effect of straight-forward, vigorous movement is en- 
hanced by another quality found in practically all old 
ballads, but conspicuously in certain ones of them; 
namely, concentration of interest on the important 
stages of the action. Sir Patrick Spens furnishes a 
particularly happy illustration of this. No words are 
lost between the giving of advice by the " eldern 
knicht " and the acting thereon by the king. In the 
next line the letter has been already written, and with- 
in the stanza Sir Patrick has received it. After the 
first bitter outcry we must imagine him transported to 



GENERAL SURVEY 455 

the company of his sailors, giving energetic, cheery 
orders to his " merry men all." Which of his com- 
rades it was that remonstrated with him is not even 
mentioned. And then the preparation, the start, the 
storm, the wreck, — all these incidents the story passes 
abruptly over, and returns again to the shore, where 
the little company of women wait, and wait in vain, 
for the return of their absent lords. It is amazing, 
when we stop to think of it, how much action has been 
conveyed to us in the eleven short stanzas of the 
ballad, and how readily our attention has flashed from 
one important moment to another as the tale has been 
unfolded to us. 

Another aspect of this same quality of directness in 
the old ballads is their prevailingly concrete diction: 
the situations are put before our very eyes, so that we 
see and hear what happens. The idea would perhaps 
have been adequately conveyed had we been told, in 
general terms, that Sir Patrick Spens and his men 
were drowned; but in the ballad it comes before us 
visibly, in a picture, — 

Bot lang ower a' the play wer playd 
Thair hats they swam aboone. 

Similarly, The Battle of Otterbum tells, in effect, that 
the Earl Douglas, in his first encounter with Lord 
Percy, overcame him, to the consternation of the lat- 
ter's adherents ; but it does not say so in any such ab- 
stract terms: rather, 



456 GENERAL SURVEY 

But O how pale his lady lookd, 

Frae aff the castle-wa, 
When down before the Scottish spear 

She saw proud Percy fa. 

Now all these examples of vivid action told in the 
language that helps one see and feel, combine to make 
a single impression, and it is useful to give that im- 
pression a name. The term most convenient to use, 
on the whole, is " objective "; by which is meant that 
the attention rests not on the writer, but the story; 
not on the motive, but the deed; not on the idea of 
emotion and action, but the concrete realization of 
them in fact. That is objectivity in literature. 
The term will become more familiar with use, and per- 
haps more flexible as well, but in order that it may 
have definite meaning for us, we cannot do better 
than connect it in thought with the concrete directness 
of these old ballads. 

No less interesting are the results when the inquiry 
turns from the way of telling the stories to the verse 
form in which most of them come down to us. The 
stanza is in most ballads the same, with strong swing 
and simple rime scheme. The line, though it is 
smooth and regular in some of the ballads, Young 
Waters for example, is notably rough in some of the 
others, as can be seen by comparing the final stanzas 
of The Battle of Otterburn. The words and phrases, 
as well, have a typical character, for apart from their 
concreteness, already mentioned, they are found to 
have certain conventional features wholly their own. 



GENERAL SURVEY 457 

For one thing, there are many alliterative phrases, ex- 
amples of which in abundance come readily to mind, — 
merry men, wild wood, flesh and fell, bonnie boy, 
dungeon deep, and so on. Such expressions as these 
are not confined to the individual ballads in which we 
happen to find them, but are repeated again and again 
through ballad literature. This repetition extends 
itself to phrases not necessarily alliterative, like broad 
letter, golden hair; to favorite numbers, like three, 
seven, forty; to situations, such as a company of ladies 
combing their hair with golden combs, or a knight, 
questioning his page-boy as to the faithfulness of his 
lady; and even to whole stanzas, like the gallant 
words with which Johnie Armstrong ended his life, 
assigned to other heroes, in other ballads, as well as 
to the hero of this. 

Now these conventional features of ballad diction 
and meter, as well as the objective nature of the 
stories, are of course results, due to some special 
cause or series of causes ; and so it is natural that the 
next question should be, " What has brought all this 
about? " The answer points back to the days, cen- 
turies ago, when the ballads were first being sung in 
England, and to the conditions under which they have 
come down to us of a later time. We know that bal- 
lads are traceable many generations back, in a great 
number of cases hundreds of years ; but we cannot 
assign them to definite dates, nor can we connect them 
with individual authors. In fact, one theory as to the 
origin of ballads is that they began, not with a single 



458 GENERAL SURVEY 

author at all, but with a group of people joined in 
festive dance and chorus. However, it is not neces- 
sary for us absolutely to decide this question, for after 
all, the point of really great value in understanding 
the old ballads is to realize the conditions under which 
they have been passed on, from father to son, until 
they have finally found their way into books. 

In earlier times before books existed, or later, in 
out-of-the-way places or among simple people where 
books were not to be found, these stories were told and 
retold from one to another, and thus passed on through 
the generations. The result was that a stanza form 
of strong, simple movement was for the most part 
used, rather than a variety of complex metrical forms, 
subtle in effect and difficult to memorize. The Bail- 
iff's Daughter of Islington is in the typical ballad 
measure, as are most of the selections here repre- 
sented, but it is to be observed that The Twa Corbies 
has a slightly different movement, and that Lord Ran- 
dal has an anapestic swing peculiar to itself. Another 
natural result, which we may note in passing, is that 
the different stories, in going through so many hands, 
among village groups widely separated from each 
other, became changed, little by little, until the version 
of a story told in one locality would be very different 
from that being told elsewhere ; and so it happens that 
in most cases several versions of a single ballad have 
been preserved, and that the form that we know is 
likely to be the one thought to be best by the one 
who prints it. This same fact of oral repetition ex- 



GENERAL SURVEY 459 

plains also another feature of ballad literature, — the 
occurrence of alliterative phrases and the repetition of 
certain words, lines, and even whole stanzas. It made 
the task of memory much easier, to use the familiar 
phrases, especially when the words were held together 
by the sound ; and it was a natural thing to carry a 
familiar idea, or phrase, or passage, from one ballad 
over to another. Finally, it is known that the old 
stories were not habitually spoken, but rather sung, or 
chanted to some simple tune. The evidences of this 
custom remain in the bits of refrain that are some- 
times to be found, as in the first stanza of Robin 
Hood's Death. The custom of singing the ballads, 
also, accounts for the irregular syllables often crowded 
into a line; for it is easy, in singing, to combine 
several words under a single note. 

All this helps explain the effect of directness and 
vigor that first impresses us as we read a number of 
ballads in succession. And in the light of it we may 
go a step farther in accounting for this fine sense of 
virility. The stories deal with those situations in hu- 
man life in which the feeling is simple and strong, and 
naturally shared by a great number of people. They 
are stories of heroism in danger, gallantry in war, 
constancy in love ; and, on the other hand, of the con- 
flict of the treacherous against the brave in battle, the 
tragedy of unfaithfulness in domestic life. Taken as 
a whole, they represent life in its somber rather than 
its joyous aspect; but more important than that, they 
reveal the deep, moving experiences common to all 



460 GENERAL SURVEY 

humanity, rather than the subtler emotions of a com- 
plex, artificial society. In other words, just as out- 
wardly these ballads had their origin and their con- 
tinued life among the great mass of the common 
people, so their spirit is close to the heart of the 
people as a whole, not to any limited section of it. 
We of a later age and a more highly developed society 
may also take pleasure in them, but it is because we 
too have a share in the common humanity of the folk 
of the ballads. All this explains what is meant when 
a poem is called " universal " in its appeal. It is a 
good term to remember, not only because it sums up 
the strongest and most lasting impression of the old 
ballads, but because it expresses a quality common, in 
greater or less degree, to all great poetry. 

LATE BALLADS 

The poems grouped under the heading Late Bal- 
lads are, in a large sense, like the old ballads both in 
substance and in form, yet in origin and purpose they 
are radically different. For these later stories were 
written by individual men, and the form in which we 
read them is due to the deliberate art of their writers. 
For this reason, when we compare them with the old 
ballads, as is wholly natural that we should do, we are 
able to ask how the conscious art of the poet differs 
from the unconscious art of the people. 

The first glance reveals much in common between 
the two groups. Like the folk ballads, these later 



GENERAL SURVEY 46l 

poems have certain external features, — the same 
stanza form, the same concentrated directness, the 
same objective quality, the same kind of subject, and 
much the same spirit. All this is due, of course, to 
.the influence of the older poems, — to the purpose of 
the poets not so much to imitate the folk ballads, as to 
write in their spirit and profit by their method. That 
they have done so is shown by the fact that almost any 
of the poems of the second group might, on a hasty 
reading, be mistaken for an " old " ballad of popular 
origin. It is upon a more careful reading that the 
differences appear. 

The metrical differences, to take the most external 
considerations first, are not so much differences of 
stanza form as they are effects of harmony within 
the stanza. To be sure, Rosabelle and Lady Clare 
employ a stanza form that is not identical with the 
typical ballad measure, for the lines are all of equal 
length and the rimes strictly alternate; similarly, La 
Belle Dame Sans Merci concludes each stanza with a 
two-foot line; and The Pride of Youth has a stanza 
form entirely its own: nevertheless, the difference of 
metrical effect is due not so much to these things as 
it is to the greater regularity of accent throughout the 
poems, and to special characteristics that can best be 
brought out by means of examples. In The Wreck of 
the Hesperus a slight shift of accent in the sixth and 
seventh stanzas puts the weight of the voice on the 
telling words — colder, colder, down. In the sixth 
stanza, the last two lines echo in sound the sense of 



462 GENERAL SURVEY 

the verse; but not so notably as the passage begin- 
ning with the fifth stanza from the end, where, after 
the contrasting line 

Looked soft as carded wool, 

comes the suggested fury of " rocks/' " gored/' and 
" horns/' the brittle shattering sound of " rattling/' 
" sheathed in ice," " glass," and the sonorous shouting 
of the winds above all — 

Ho ! ho ! the breakers roared ! 

A very delicate effect of metrical harmony appears in 
La Belle Dame Sans Merci, and has no small part in 
the unearthly impression that the poem makes. In 
contrast with the quicker movement of the preceding 
lines, the short line that concludes each stanza falls 
with a strange solemnity, especially where there is c 
succession of heavily accented syllables, — 

And no birds sing; 

And made sweet moan; 

On the cold hill's side. 

It is not unnatural to look for yet other signs of 
the artistic spirit, beside these metrical effects. And 
very easy is it to find them, especially in the diction 
of the late ballads. In Lucy Gray can be observed 
the same concreteness of diction that is found in the 
folk ballads, and in such phrases as " solitary song," 



GENERAL SURVEY 463 

and " whistles in the wind/' is the same tendency to 
alliteration; yet the individual hand of the poet is 
seen in the definiteness of the descriptive touches, — 
the wooden bridge a furlong from the door, the broken 
hawthorn hedge, — and in such close observation as in 
the lines, 

Her feet disperse the powdery snow 
That rises up like smoke. 

Closest to the diction of the old ballads, perhaps, is 
Lord Ullin's Daughter, with such phrases as " silver 
pound," " bonny bride," " winsome lady," " waters 
wild " ; farthest from it is the delicate suggestiveness of 
La Belle Dame Sans Merci, with lines like these: 

Alone and palely loitering; 

I saw their starved lips in the gloam. 

How are all these differences between the folk bal- 
lads and those written by individual poets to be 
summed up ? Here again there is need of certain gen- 
eral terms that will help keep the qualities apart in 
our minds. But they are easily supplied. The bal- 
lads in which the author's personality is expressed, 
and which require, therefore, special freedom in 
phrase and style, may be called " personal " ; and 
poems like Lucy Gray and La Belle Dame Sans Merci 
can stand as examples. On the other hand, those in 
which there is no single author, or in which the author 
has been content to hide his personality behind famil- 



464 GENERAL SURVEY 

iar thoughts and phrases, may be called " imper- 
sonal " ; and as examples we have not only the whole 
body of folk ballads, but such poems as Lord Ullin's 
Daughter as well. It is then but a step, and an easy 
one, to notice that the poem of " impersonal " tone, 
like Sir Patrick Spens, is likely to be " objective " in 
incident and diction; whereas the poem of " personal " 
tone, like Lucy, is generally marked by a style that 
may be called, in contrast, " subjective." The order 
in which the groups of poems are here taken up shows 
progress in a single clearly-marked direction, — from 
the " impersonal " to the " personal," from the " ob- 
jective " to the " subjective." 

SHORT NARRATIVE POEMS 

In the body of the text a group of poems on battle 
and war is separated from another group of short 
narrative poems. This is, of course, simply a matter 
of convenience, for no essential distinction between 
stories in verse is based merely on the subjects treated. 
For the present purpose, therefore, both groups fall 
into one division, — short narrative poems of individual 
authorship, with a wide range of subject and style. 
In this latter point lies their difference from the poems 
that have just been discussed: those, the Late Ballads, 
follow more or less closely a definitely marked tradi- 
tion; these others have freedom to draw upon all the 
resources of narrative poetry. 

This freedom is shown most strikingly in the metri- 



GENERAL SURVEY 465 

cal variety of the poems in the group. From poems 
like Love, by Coleridge, written in a verse that bears 
considerable resemblance to the ballad measure, the 
stanza forms extend so as to include not only the 
short couplets of Barbara Frietchie, but also the 
longer stanzas of Lochinvar, the more complex ones 
of The Sands of Dee, and finally the wholly irregular 
paragraphs of Tennyson's The Revenge. 

When the metrical swing of the line is considered, 
however, the full significance of this freedom is felt; 
for meter appeals not so much to the eye, as we glance 
over the printed page, as to the ear, when we read the 
poem aloud or catch its movement with our inward 
hearing. Then we notice the dashing swing of the 
anapests in Lochinvar, or, in the same meter, the per- 
sistent, pounding gallop of Roland, carrying the good 
news from Ghent to Aix. Rougher and more ir- 
regular, full of power, is the anapestic vigor of The 
Battle of Naseby. Similarly, The Charge of the Light 
Brigade owes much of its stirring energy to the rush 
of its hurrying dactyls. In striking contrast is the 
quiet musical dignity of the iambic measure, as seen 
in Coleridge's poem Love. Even within the narrower 
limits of a single kind of meter can be felt distinct 
differences of metrical feeling. The anapests of The 
Burial of Sir John Moore have a wholly different 
effect from those of Lochinvar, for example; just as 
the iambic movement of Scott's The Outlaw would 
never be confused with that of Wordsworth's Lao- 
da mia. 



466 GENERAL SURVEY 

No less wide is the range of narrative method found 
in this same group of poems. The gallop to Aix is 
told in the first person — a vivid retrospect by one of 
the riders. So, too, in the poem Love, we hear the 
story in the words of the chief actor in it. Most of 
the others poems are told in the third person; but 
even here a difference must be noted: in such a poem 
as the Incident of the French Camp, or, to a less de- 
gree, Herve Riel, we feel the narrator to have been a 
witness to the events of the tale; whereas in other 
poems, like Hohenlinden, or Laodamia, the teller is 
that vague, undefined, impersonal spirit, that can 
nevertheless report accurately whatever men think or 
feel or do. 

The poets that draw thus freely on all these re- 
sources of metrical effect and narrative method have, 
as is natural, purposes that vary as widely as the 
means ; and, as all study of results leads to a study of 
causes, our inquiry inevitably leads us to a consider- 
ation of these purposes as well. As we should ex- 
pect, the personality of the poet, felt faintly as an 
element in some of the later English ballads, has in 
these stories a large freedom of expression. The 
center of attention is still upon the action of the story ; 
but it is sometimes a single phase of the action that 
the poet has selected, or perhaps some special angle 
from which we are invited to view it. Hohenlinden, 
for example, depicts a battle as a glorious conflict 
followed by the sad, noble spectacle of a field of 
warriors' graves; or the soldiers who have just buried 






GENERAL SURVEY 467 

Sir John Moore are described as retiring, leaving him 
" alone in his glory." Yet so different is the attitude 
of Southey's After Blenheim, that doubt is cast as to 
the reality of the issues in battle, and the mind is left 
questioning whether, after all, war, and the sacrifices 
of it, is not all a sad mistake. Even in the tales of 
war-time heroism, the incidents are recorded under 
strikingly different aspects. The Incident of the 
French Camp tells a story of personal heroism and 
tells it in a way that throws emphasis on the boy's 
soldierly pride and his personal loyalty to his great 
chief; Barbara Frietchie's deed, on the other hand, is 
shown to spring from pure patriotic fervor, a burning, 
through impersonal, devotion to her country's cause. 

Descriptive passages have their part in many of 
these brief narrative poems, and that part often an 
important one. The opening description in Barbara 
Frietchie — gentle, peaceful landscape — increases the 
vivid sense of ruthless destruction that accompanied 
the army's march. Another example is the poem 
Love, in which the scene by the ancient tower, with its 
rude outline indistinct in the moonlight, and against 
it the dim figure of an armed knight, heightens by its 
romantic contrast the story of youth and passion 
enacted within its shadow. More striking still is the 
part played by the scene in The Sands of Dee, for 
there nature seems, to the imagination, to become a 
part of the action itself, and to be a hostile force, 
helping to bring about the maiden's death. In cer- 
tain poems, on the other hand, the entire absence of 



468 GENERAL SURVEY 

description is as noteworthy as its presence is in those 
just cited. There is no time for landscape in The 
Charge of the Light Brigade : there is simply an order, 
a charge, a murderous cannonade, heart-sickening 
slaughter, and retreat — a story of men, guns, and " the 
mouth of Hell." And between these extremes comes 
the descriptive element in the majority of the poems, 
— such as the rapidly flashed pictures seen by the gal- 
loping horsemen on the way to Aix, the poised figure 
of Laodamia awaiting answer to her prayer, or the 
" smiling joy " of the boy soldier approaching Na- 
poleon with his message. Such passages as these, in 
all their variety, may escape conscious notice, but 
their influence in the total impression of the poems 
would be hard to overestimate. 

When we see how all these details of poetic practice 
— meter, diction, emphasis, descriptive touches — are 
delicately adapted to bring out the central feeling of 
the poem, we come to realize the part played by art 
in the world of narrative poetry. Nature is the sub- 
ject; art is the expression: both are combined in the 
true poem. Now in the group of old English ballads 
it has been natural to lay stress on the element of 
nature, whereas in the present group of short narra- 
tives the emphasis has been on that of art. But it 
would not do to feel that the two groups of poems are 
too widely separated. When all is said and done, the 
strong bond of nature holds them both strongly to- 
gether. The point is worth dwelling on a little. 

The old ballads, it will be remembered, though they 



GENERAL SURVEY 469 

lack conscious art, are notable for their directness and 
concentration — qualities summed up under the term 
" objective." These qualities are shared alike by the 
other narrative poems, even those that owe most to the 
element of conscious art. Poems from both groups 
are direct and concentrated, in their several degrees, 
each upon its own fragment of action selected from 
the larger experience of man. Johnie Armstrong tells 
one story of a gallant fight against impossible odds, 
and The Revenge tells another, with considerably 
more elaboration of detail; yet when the multifarious 
action and the confused motives and issues of a battle 
are taken into account, it becomes clear that Tenny- 
son's poem, no less than the ballad, follows the method 
of concentrating the mind upon the salient aspects and 
moments of the story. Again, all these narrative 
poems, of popular and individual origin, are objective 
in the sense that each tells a story conceived of as 
taking place in the actual physical world, the realm of 
action rather than of emotion. Alike in The Battle 
of Otterburn and Hohenlinden is a disastrous battle 
fought; and though the latter poem pauses to reflect 
upon the loss of brave human life occasioned by the 
battle, it tells, no less than the former, a story that we 
can follow with our senses — the sights of war with our 
eyes, the sounds of it with our ears. Finally it is 
clear, without pointing to special examples, that in 
each of the poems of whatever group there is a breadth 
of appeal — the exercise of some great quality, some 
touch of deep human feeling — that takes it out of the 



470 GENERAL SURVEY 

realm of the accidentally interesting., and carries afar 
its power to stir the mind and heart: and to that ex- 
tent they are all universal as well. 

At this point analysis fails. It is useful, in begin- 
ning to study poetry, to be able to separate this ele- 
ment from that, to contrast one influence with an- 
other. But inevitably a point is reached at last where 
all the separate elements are fused into the one im- 
pression ; and then first we are in the presence of the 
poem itself. The earlier observations of the mind are 
not lost because they do not longer stand out as sepa- 
rate judgments; they rather go to enrich the total 
pleasure with which the mind and heart together re- 
spond to the poem's appeal. This is the point to 
stress, then, as we approach the end of our consider- 
ation of these brief narrative poems. With this 
caution clearly before us, we may use the method of 
analysis without abusing it, still realizing that though 
observation and comparison may increase pleasure, 
they will never take the place of that spontaneous 
delight when one meets a new poem to care for, 
deepening into affection with repeated reading and 
familiarity. 

LONGER NARRATIVE POEMS 

There is little to add about the poems that form the 
group of longer narrative poems. Standing, as they 
do, between the short, concentrated poems of single 
episode and the long stories of epic proportion and 



GENERAL SURVEY 471 

complexity, the poems grouped under this head have 
more in common with the former class than with the 
latter. The Ancient Mariner, it must be confessed, 
does cover a fairly long series of events, and the Rape 
of the Loch, if it does not copy epic style, at least 
mocks it: yet even in the former case all the events in 
the mariner's story are felt to be parts of a single 
experience, whose unity is further emphasized by the 
device of the wedding-guest; and in the latter case we 
think of the poem simply as a playful elaboration on 
the briefest and most fragile of episodes. The essen- 
tial brevity of scope in the other poems is emphasized, 
in the case of The Eve of St. Agnes and Sohrab and 
Rustum, by the strict unity of time and action. So it 
may fairly be said that the principles of the short nar- 
rative poems can be applied, with some degree of al- 
lowance, to these stories of greater length. For that 
reason, and because each of the latter group is treated 
separately in the notes, only a few brief observations 
of a general nature need be made here. 

It takes only a glance to show that the additional 
length of these poems is not devoted merely to cover- 
ing more ground in the story and adding more narra- 
tive details. A large picture differs from a small one 
not so much in the number of details admitted, as in 
the scale upon which everything is drawn. The result 
is an effect of largeness and sweep, perhaps of greater 
weight and power. This is particularly true of 
poetry, for in the process of reading, details reach the 
mind singly, and the poems that have a sense of 



472 GENERAL SURVEY 

leisureliness give time for the impressions to sink in, 
so that the reader comes with ever readier sympathy 
into the imaginative mood of the tale. The Eve of St. 
Agnes is a case in point. Step by step the reader 
accustoms himself to the unfamiliar atmosphere of a 
mediaeval castle, and to the issues of love and hate, the 
prospects of youth and age, working themselves out 
within its walls, — the chill and dreary chapel, the 
festive splendor of the hall, the long dim passages, 
finally the chamber of Madeline herself, where at last 
the reader, now fully in accord with the spirit of the 
tale, is prepared to follow in sympathetic mood the 
more intimate unfolding of the story. 

A slightly closer examination of this same kind 
reveals the added fact that in the longer narrative 
poems can be detected signs of a formal organization. 
An " introduction " precedes the main action, leading 
up to it, and preparing the reader's mind. This is 
formal, elaborately so, in The Rape of the Loch; in- 
formal, but quite as useful, in Sohrab and Rustum. 
Similarly, when the story is virtually finished, a " con- 
clusion " follows, for the purpose of gradually lower- 
ing the emotional interest and bringing the mind to 
rest. The transfer of attention from the mariner to 
the wedding-guest accomplishes this in Coleridge's 
poem ; and in Arnold's we find an example of singular 
perfection in the final description of the river and the 
eternal stars. 

The longer poems, finally, present one more aspect 
from which it is well to view them as a whole. If we 






GENERAL SURVEY 473 

put them beside the shorter narratives, and ask 
whether they owe their added power to the greater 
interest of the story itself or to the way in which the 
poet tells the story, it will appear at once that the 
impression is due to the latter cause. Merely as a 
story, the flight on St. Agnes' Eve has little to hold our 
interest ; or again, the bare outline of even so moving a 
story as Sohrab and Rustum would perhaps hardly 
stir us. At first glance this seems most surprising; 
but only as we stop so to consider it do we realize how 
great is the poet's part in searching the story for its 
vital elements, and setting them forth so as to make 
us feel their power. The Ancient Mariner would have 
been a crude ghost story had not Coleridge brought us 
by subtle degrees under its unearthly spell, and sug- 
gested the delicate connection between the sailor's 
strange adventures and the experiences of the human 
soul. And only the sure hand of Keats, with its ex- 
quisite sensitiveness and his command of the magic 
phrase, could have made The Eve of St. Agnes the 
perfect poem that it is. Perhaps this ability of the 
poet to see beyond the mere facts of life, and to show 
what meaning they have for us, can fully be realized 
only in the study of the drama, where he is freest to 
exercise his own peculiar powers. But however that 
may be, he does the same for us in narrative poetry 
too, especially in these examples of moderate length, 
and through them we can gain some immediate realiza- 
tion of what part the poet plays in the life of the 
mind. 



474 GENERAL SURVEY 



METRICAL EXPRESSION IN LYRIC POETRY 

In the reading of poetry it is the most tangible thing 
that is likely to make the strongest first impression. 
And in lyric poetry, it is perhaps safe to say, this im- 
pression comes from the music. Pure music, of 
course, is another form of art; yet as familiarity with 
lyrics grows it is astonishing to see how close is the 
approach to the effects of pure music itself. Notes, 
to be sure, poetry lacks, but tones it does have, and in 
their beauty lies much of the peculiar charm of verse. 
Perhaps the nearest approach to the effect of pure 
music is the wordless refrain — pure song — such as is 
found in Shakspere's It Was a Lover and His Lass, 

With a hey and a ho, and a hey nonino 

It is the most artless, the most natural expression of 
a joyous, care-free spirit. But the song which con- 
tains these bursts of spontaneous music is itself 
trembling on the edge of being pure sound : in the last 
three lines especially it is the playful repetition of 
sound that carries the effect of the poem, — that, and 
the lilting gaiety of the rhythm: 

In spring time, the only pretty ring time, 
When birds do sing hey ding a ding: 
Sweet lovers love the Spring. 

It needs only to read, immediately after this poem, 
Shelley's Dirge, to emphasize the matter by contrast. 



GENERAL SURVEY 475 

We do not need to go to the meaning of the poem, to 
get an idea of sorrow : the sound of moans and wailing 
is in the very words themselves : 

Rough wind, that moanest loud, 

Grief too sad for song; 
Wild wind, when sullen cloud 

Knells all the night long; 
Sad storm whose tears are vain, 
Bare woods whose branches stain, 
Deep caves and dreary main, 

Wail for the world's wrong! 

What should be the conclusion from many examples 
such as these, in which the effect is one of nearly pure 
emotion, and the lines are notable for their appropri- 
ateness of sound? This, surely, it would be safe to 
say: that in one direction, at any rate, lyric poetry 
not only approaches the effect of music, but also em- 
ploys methods not unlike those of music itself. 

Furthermore, it would be natural to expect that the 
lyrics actually written to be sung should be those in 
which the sound counts for most in the total effect. 
And that, in a large sense, is practically found to be 
the case. The most obvious examples are found in 
the poetry of love, much of which, naturally, is in the 
form of songs. Shelley's The Indian Serenade is such 
a one, notable for the tone of its vowel sounds ; notable, 
too, for the open simplicity of its thought. For this 
further appears, when we take time to think of it, 
that in listening to song we have no attention to spare 



476 GENERAL SURVEY 

for delicate subtleties of meaning: the mind should 
grasp the sense with perfect ease, if the emotions are 
to respond readily to the feeling that is in the song. 
No group of poems illustrates this better than the love 
songs of Burns, and one of these, the one beginning 
" O my luve's like a red, red rose," will stand for all. 
Its meaning is simple and expressed in the most di- 
rect of words; more than that, there is repetition of 
word and phrase that addresses itself rather to the 
ear and the feelings than to the eye and the mind: the 
poem, in a word, suggests song so strongly that it 
seems to sing itself. Should we wish to test this by 
contrast, no poems would be more to our purpose than 
the sonnets. In these, taken as a whole, the ideas are 
discriminated and related each to each, and the mind 
is too closely engaged with them to give itself up to 
the free enjoyment of a musical accompaniment. 
Milton's sonnet On His Blindness would be a rather 
extreme case in point. 

When we come to the more particular consideration 
of rhythm in lyric poetry, we observe first of all, per- 
haps, that certain measures common in narrative poetry 
are conspicuous for their absence. Blank verse, the 
most important of these, is obviously better suited to 
the irregularity and eccentricity of narrative or dra- 
matic expression ; it is somewhat too heavy, also, and it 
lacks the feeling of structure that rime and stanza form 
give to a lyric. And, for somewhat similar reasons, 
the same can be said of dactylic hexameter, in which 
Longfellow's Evangeline is written. But among the 






GENERAL SURVEY 477 

measures commonly found in lyrics, the same harmony 
is to be noticed between the mood of the poem and its 
meter that was found in the case of narrative poems. 
The point is an important one, and worth more than 
passing mention. 

It would indeed be interesting if some large prin- 
ciple could be found connecting certain forms of 
rhythm with certain forms of feeling. And when we 
find the vigorous mood of 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

so admirably expressed in trochaic meter, or the 
solemnity of Gray's Elegy so fittingly expressed in 
iambic, it might indeed seem possible to arrive at some 
consistent principle. But it soon appears that the 
Iambic meter that is lively and spirited in 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 
A wind that follows fast, 

has solemnity of movement in 

My days among the dead are past. 

And the dactylic meter that gives speed and vigor to 
The Charge of the Light Brigade is deliberate and 
meditative in Hood's poem beginning 

One more Unfortunate 
Weary of breath. 

And so it is necessary to conclude that however strong 
the tendency may be to associate certain moods with 



478 GENERAL SURVEY 

certain kinds of meter, nevertheless it is more im- 
portant to realize the flexibility of which any given 
meter is capable, and to take full account of it in 
reading. For the most part, then, the meter, with 
sympathetic reading, is felt to be harmonious with 
the mood of the poem, though in an undefinable sort 
of way. Occasionally, however, some special effects 
are observed, so interesting as to repay a somewhat 
closer observation. 

Shorter lines, introduced here and there among 
longer, often have an effect of special emphasis. This 
is so in Shelley's poem To the Night, in which the 
pause and the slower cadence give greater value to the 
shorter lines, — " Come, long sought," " Soon, too 
soon." And, in a lighter mood, the unusual emphasis 
gives an effect of playful anti-climax in The Last 
Leaf, by Holmes: 

But the old three-cornered hat, 
And the breeches, and all that, 
Are so queer ! 

Moore, in his poem called Echoes, by interspersing 
shorter lines among the longer, reminds us of the 
reply made by the real echo to the syllables of our 
longer calling, — 

Yet love hath echoes truer far, 

And far more sweet, 
Than e'er beneath the moonlight's star, 
Of horn, or lute, or soft guitar, 

The songs repeat. 



GENERAL SURVEY 479 

The echoing of sound to sense, known as onomato- 
poeia, finds its most notable instances in the passages 
where the resemblance is one of pure vowel and con- 
sonant tone, as in the famous lines, from Tennyson, 

The moan of doves in immemorable elms, 
And murmuring of innumerable bees. 

Shakspere's It Was a Lover and His Lass has 
already been cited, and Milton's sonnet On the Late 
Massacre in Piedmont is too remarkable an example 
not to be mentioned specially. It is unusual, however, 
to find an instance so sustained as this ; generally it is 
in the phrase or the line that we meet with an echo of 
the sense in the sound of the words. 

Not alone in the quality of the sound, however, is 
there found this special effect of echo: the swing of 
the meter sometimes helps to express definitely the 
idea of the poem as a whole. In narrative poetry this 
has been illustrated in the galloping anapests of How 
They Brought the Good News. An instance among 
lyric poems is the stanza form of Shelley's famous ad- 
dress To the Skylark. In this stanza the short 
trochees of the first part give something of the effect of 
rapid winging, and the long iambic lines that bring 
each stanza to a close have a sense of sustained power 
not unlike that of a bird's soaring: 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest, 
Like a cloud of fire, 

The blue deep thou wingest, 
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. 



480 GENERAL SURVEY 

In this connection Moore's The Young May Moon has 
a point of particular interest. It begins with an 
iambic line made especially slow by the long unac- 
cented syllables: 

The young May moon is beaming, love, 
The glow-worm's lamp is gleaming, love, 

and the effect of drowsy dreaming is well sustained 
through the beginning of the stanza. But with the 
sixth line there is an abrupt change in the mood, 
signaled by the sudden substitution of anapestic feet, 
with their brisk, wide-awake movement: 

Then awake! — the heavens look bright, my dear, 
'Tis never too late for delight, my dear, 

And the best of all ways 

To lengthen our days 
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear! 

To be sensitive to effects of meter such as these quick- 
ens our enjoyment of poetry, yet it is well to realize 
the limitations on their use set by the conditions of 
literary art. Tone or rhythm may suggest an experi- 
ence of the senses, but it is not the province of poetry 
to try to imitate such experience closely. The sound 
of the words and the swing of the rhythm are truly 
effective when they simply express the mood of the 
poem, and help the reader catch its spirit. 

It is useful to pause at this point for a moment, to 
compare the first impression of lyric poetry with that 



GENERAL SURVEY 481 

received in the first reading of the early ballads. The 
contrast is striking. There the emphasis was on the 
movement and action of the story — what was called 
the " objective " side; here it is on the " subjective " 
side, the expression of human emotion. The stories 
of the ballads told of events in the tangible world of 
things; the emotion of the lyric poem, on the other 
hand, is intangible, and has its seat in the spirit of the 
singer. But has not the lyric its objective side, too? 
Is it all spirit and feeling, or is there something that 
answers to the series of actual events that carry for- 
ward the interest of the narrative poem? The ques- 
tion leads to a consideration of 

STRUCTURE IN LYRIC POETRY, 

Structure of some sort, it readily appears, lyric 
poetry must have: otherwise it is simply incoherent 
emotion — no art at all. But this negative statement is 
not enough ; we know that much of the pleasure that a 
good lyric gives is in the orderly progress of it, its 
concentrated power, its sense of accomplished finality. 
What then is this structure in the lyric, corresponding 
to the chain of events that make up the substance of a 
narrative poem? The key to the matter lies in the 
stanza. Structure implies separate parts, and their 
relation to one another. And in the case of lyrics, of 
course, the parts are stanzas, each with its own idea, 
and each, consequently, separate from every other. 
A poem in which the stanzas relate themselves to each 



482 GENERAL SURVEY 

other in bringing out a larger meaning, then, would 
furnish a simple illustration of structure in lyric 
poetry. Such a one is Campbell's Ye Mariners of 
England, in which the maritime glories of England 
are passed in review. The first stanza is introductory: 
it addresses itself to those who would be called upon to 
defend England in another war upon the seas; the 
spirit it breathes is the thrill of battle and the glory of 
victory. The three stanzas that complete the poem 
deal with the three stages of England's naval prowess : 
first in the past, the memorable days of Blake and 
Nelson; then in the present, when the country re- 
joices in her feeling of security; and finally in the 
future, when men of later times shall celebrate the 
valiant deeds of England's present defenders. That 
each step of the poem is complete within the stanza 
is emphasized by the similar ending of each, as a sort 
of refrain, or chorus: 



While the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle rages loud and long 
And the stormy winds do blow. 



And the completion of the larger idea is emphasized, 
and its effect heightened, by the slight change in the 
ending of the last stanza of all: 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 
When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
And the storm has ceased to blow. 



GENERAL SURVEY 483 

Another poem in which the stanzas are related to- 
gether according to time order is Wordsworth's She 
Was a Phantom of Delight. The first stanza is the 
picture of a girl with the elusive charm of youthful 
gaiety; the second, the same girl grown a woman, the 
rich sympathy of her nature beginning to appear; the 
third, the " perfect woman," in all her serene ma- 
turity, yet with her earlier mystic charm still upon 
her. No less interesting is it to observe in both these 
poems that in a few stanzas may be summed up the 
whole significance of a nation's naval history or of a 
complete human life; that the structure of a lyric 
poem, in other words, helps to bring about the intense 
concentration of feeling that marks the strongest 
poems. 

Another principle of structure may be observed in 
the lyrics that focus all their power upon a single ut- 
terance at the end. Lovelace, in the lines to Lucasta, 
sums up a fundamental idea of chivalry in the words, 

I could not love thee, Dear, so much, 
Loved I not Honour more. 

But their full significance is realized only in the light 
of the situation brought out in the first part of the 
poem, — a lover called away to the wars, who must 
justify himself against the reproaches of his disap- 
pointed mistress. Milton, too, in the beginning of his 
sonnet on his blindness, tells us the circumstances 
leading to his anxious self-questioning, after which we 



484. GENERAL SURVEY 

are ready to realize the depth of conviction with which 
he utters the memorable last line, — 

They also serve who only stand and wait. 

In nothing does the concentrated unity of lyric feel- 
ing more clearly appear than in the relation of the 
beginning of a poem to its end; and so it becomes 
interesting to give some special attention to that. 
In some instances a personal experience is dwelt upon 
until it acquires the significance of a universal truth; 
in some, the force of a general law is focused upon an 
individual experience, vitalizing it and giving it larger 
meaning. In either case there is development from a 
lower tone to a higher, from milder, - impersonal in- 
terest to intensity of spiritual conviction. Bryant's 
To a Waterfowl is an instance. The first stanzas de- 
scribe the bird, fixed in purpose, steady in flight; 
further contemplation brings out the aspects in which 
the bird's life and man's destiny find common ground ; 
and at the end the human feeling has swept away all 
thought of the physical presence of the bird, and ad- 
dresses it as a warrant for human trust in the divine. 
The thought progresses in a similar direction in 
Holmes's poem, The Chambered Nautilus. The shell 
attracts attention first as a curiously beautiful speci- 
men in natural history; but by degrees the thought is 
transferred to the wider principle of development 
stage by stage, until it comes to a climax in the high 
seriousness of the last stanza, applying the meaning 



GENERAL SURVEY 485 

of the shell's growth to the development of the poet's 
own soul. The poem of Burns addressed to a field- 
mouse has a more abrupt transition, but the principle 
is the same, — first an accidental circumstance, dwelt 
upon until the mind is familiar with its significant 
aspect, then the application of the meaning as a large 
truth bearing upon the human spirit. Wordsworth's 
Ode to Duty is somewhat different: its beginning is 
general and impersonal; but soon the personal note 
enters, and by the last stanza the feeling has changed 
to one of deep concern to the poet himself. 

It would be unfair to dismiss this part of the sub- 
ject without saying that there is of course a wide dif- 
ference in the closeness with which the stanzas of lyric 
poems are bound to a certain principle of order. In 
some poems, in fact, like Lamb's Old Familiar Faces, 
or A Boy's Song, by James Hogg, the stanzas seem to 
stand separate, independent of any strict principle of 
order; but even in these there can be felt an increase 
of emotional stress, and this sense of climax is itself 
a fair substitute for a more rigid principle of arrange- 
ment. 

Structure, then, the lyrics have, and must have, just 
as much as the narrative poems. In fact, structure 
of one kind or another is necessary in all art, whether 
it be painting, sculpture, literature, or music. That, 
however, is too large a matter to go into here: what 
space is left must be devoted to an important inquiry 
that underlies all that has thus far been said about 
lyric poetry. Lyrics, it has been shown, express hu- 



486 GENERAL SURVEY 

man emotion. But emotions, as they come to us, are 
formless, chaotic, vague. Why is it that the expres- 
sion of them, then, does not necessarily take on this 
same character? What has prepared them for the 
more definite structural treatment that has been noted ? 
The answer brings the discussion back to the most 
fundamental matter of all, — 

THE ELEMENTS OF LYRIC POETRY. 

The elements are two, — emotion and imagery; the 
first the subject of lyric poetry, the second its expres- 
sion. With regard to the first, it must be clear that 
however formless and vague emotions may be as they 
come and go in our experience, after there has been 
selection among them, and a strict subordination to one 
dominant mood, they are no longer chaotic, but ready 
for artistic expression, single, simple, and direct. 
Wordsworth's The Daffodils, which we are told grew 
out of a personal experience, illustrates how this can 
be. Many feelings come to us in a solitary ramble in 
the country, thoughts and moods related to all sorts of 
accidental circumstances. And many sights arrest 
our attention, some impressing us more, some less, 
depending very much on our changing mood. Now in 
Wordsworth's poem, no account is taken of the many 
accidental shif tings of interest, but one prevailing 
mood is described, and that very clearly — a sort of 
vacant loneliness, in which the mind, not seriously pre- 
occupied with its own concerns, is sensitive and open to 



GENERAL SURVEY 487 

impressions coming from without. And of such im- 
pressions only one is recorded, — the vision of the daf- 
fodils, — and this, the central experience of the day's 
aimless wanderings, becomes the single source of pleas- 
ure, not for the one day only, but whenever the orig- 
inal mood chances to return, and the experience is 
repeated in the memory. 

To use yet another illustration, one who cares for 
the sea knows it in many aspects, and the thought of 
it brings to him a confusion of recollections connected 
with all sorts of individual circumstances. But there 
is nothing of accidental circumstance, no confusion of 
moods, in Cunningham's fine old song, A Wet Sheet 
and Flowing Sea; the feeling is single, as if distilled 
out of many experiences ; it is also simple and direct. 

Yet however simple and direct our emotion may be, 
it is always in itself an intangible thing. It is to be 
sure the spirit of the poem, giving it life, but the spirit 
needs a tangible body in order to make the kind of 
appeal that all art makes to us — through the senses. 
That body is imagery; and it is well worth while to 
consider how it links together the intangible spirit that 
dwells within and the sense impressions that make that 
spirit felt. 

To begin at once with an example, there is patriot- 
ism, the love of country, — about as abstract a thing 
as can well be imagined, as is seen when we try to 
define what we mean by the country we love. How can 
poetry express this intangible emotion? Not, cer- 
tainly, in abstract terms. But love of country is asso- 



488 GENERAL SURVEY 

ciated, for one thing, with a multitude of experiences 
of sight and sound and smell, — other things too, but 
they may be disregarded for the present. Browning, 
while spending April away from his own country, re- 
calls the familiar sights and sounds of April in Eng- 
land, and records them in a poem ; to what end ? Cer- 
tainly not for the mere beauty of the description, 
beautiful though it be ; nor as a hymn to abstract Na- 
ture. The title points to the true answer, — Home 
Thoughts. All natural beauty, in all places, makes its 
appeal to the true singer, and Browning was sensitive 
to beauty wherever he found it; but for the present 
he is thinking only of that which was familiar in his 
own home country, — " In England — now ! " 

That is, of course, but one aspect of patriotism, and 
is another illustration of the singleness of the lyric 
mood; other aspects have been expressed in other 
ways. Moore, for example, sings that passionate love 
that devotes life and death to the country's service, 
and deems the greatest sacrifice the purest pleasure. 
The poem that expresses this is Pro Patria Mori; and 
a superficial reading might take it as the outpouring 
of passionate devotion from a lover to his loved one. 
But it is, of course, to his native country — Patria — 
that the lover dedicates himself; his country becomes 
tangible to the imagination when conceived of as a 
woman, that the poet, in terms of personal devotion, 
may bring home the intensity of his ardor. 

In these examples, then, some idea may appear of 
what is meant by " imagery : " simply the familiar idea 



GENERAL SURVEY 489 

of the figure of speech more widely applied. It calls 
out a response because it brings to the mind pictures, 
experiences, memories, impressions of the senses, — 
all the tangible associations of deep or vivid feeling. 
And so, although imagery includes figures of speech, 
however simple or elaborate they may be, it includes 
much more, — the whole setting of a lyric, its time and 
place, the choice of its representative characters, its 
personified conceptions, its visualized action — all that 
brings feeling from the realm of the abstract to the 
concrete, that makes intangible conceptions tangible. 

At this point, where the brief outline as to what 
characterizes lyric poetry is about completed, it is in- 
teresting to turn once more to the conclusions regard- 
ing narrative poetry, and to ask what are the final re- 
sults. The differences between the two kinds are at 
first glance most obvious, — the fact that the narrative 
begins with the story and then brings out its emotional 
significance, whereas the lyric begins with the emotion, 
and finds an appropriate expression in time and cir- 
cumstance. Fully to realize this difference helps to 
clarify our thought regarding the two types of poetry, 
and to distinguish between one element and another in 
a single poem of either type. But more important 
than the differences are the likenesses; and more sig- 
nificant than what distinguishes them as separate 
types, is what unites them as poetry. For after all, 
that is our main concern — what poetry, in its essence, 
is. 

What is, poetry, then? The question is too large 



490 GENERAL SURVEY 

to answer finally here. Other forms, the drama and 
the epic, would have to be included, and a wide experi- 
ence of life and art be presupposed. Yet in the mate- 
rial already at hand tendencies may be observed, and 
in their direction it is safe to look for the larger an- 
swer. The first thing that appears is that poetry takes 
for its subject human life, — not life in its abstract 
aspects, however, its scientific theories and speculative 
problems, but life in the concrete, as it touches the 
feelings — human experience and human aspiration. 
In our outlook on the world we have minds to think 
with and hearts to feel with. Poetry is not without its 
intellectual side; but primarily its appeal is to the 
heart. 

And next it is seen that poetry, finding the ex- 
periences and emotions of life confused by accidental 
circumstance, selects what it chooses to deal with, ar- 
ranges its parts, emphasizes what is significant. The 
result is concentration and a sense of power. Inci- 
dents are shorn of their haphazard features, and their 
meaning stands out clear; feelings are simplified, and 
related clearly to their cause. Poetry, in this sense, 
brings order out of the life with which it deals. 

Finally, poetry presents its message in terms of 
beauty. It charms the ear with its sound, and stimu- 
lates the other senses with its imagery. On the side of 
diction we get the sense of the inevitable word, and on 
that of meter the one appropriate music. The heart 
responds readily to the touch of beauty; and so 
through a poem's charm of style we approach most 



GENERAL SURVEY 491 

directly and with most open sympathy the full mean- 
ing it is to have for us. 

Only when poetry is thus considered in its larger 
aspects can the term " universal," as commonly ap- 
plied to it, be fully understood. Any given action is 
in itself merely an individual fact, and any given feel- 
ing is no more than a personal experience. But when 
the action or the feeling is freed of its accidental cir- 
cumstances, and its inner significance is allowed to ap- 
pear, and especially when this meaning is expressed in 
terms of permanent beauty, the range of its interest 
increases until it includes all those who can share in 
it. We need not be Frenchmen to thrill to the story 
of Napoleon's wounded messenger, nor need we be 
Scotchmen to respond to the ringing appeal of Bruce 
in his address at Bannockburn. Love of freedom, ad- 
miration for loyalty in a high cause, — these things 
belong to our common human nature, and bind in com- 
mon sympathy all loyal hearts, of whatever country 
and of whatever time. That is the secret of all great 
poetry, of the breadth as well as the depth of its 
appeal. 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



(WITH WORKS) 

Arnold, M., 1822-1888. page 

Requiescat 197 

Sohrab and Rustum ' 122 

To Marguerite 271 

Beeching, H. C, 1859-. 

Bicycling Song 175 

Bronte, E., 1818-1848. 

Stanzas 268 

Browning, E. B., 1809-1861. 

How Do I Love Thee 280 

If Thou Must Love Me 279 

Browning, R., 1812-1889. 

Cavalier Tunes 262 

I. Marching Along. 

II. Give a Rouse. 

III. Boot and Saddle. 

Evelyn Hope 211 

Herve Riel 64 

How They Brought the Good News from Ghent 

to Aix 42 

Home-Thoughts from Abroad . . . .260 
Home-Thoughts from the Sea . . . .260 

Incident of the French Camp .... 54 

My Last Duchess 51 

Pheidippides 80 

Prospice 276 

The Lost Leader 261 

Up at a Villa— Down in the City . . . .178 
Bryant, W. C, 1794-1878. 

Thanatopsis 273 

To a Waterfowl 241 

493 



494 INDEX OF AUTHORS 

Burns, R., 1759-1796. PAGE 

A Man's a Man for A' That 269 

Bannockburn 259 

Highland Mary 200 

Jean 187 

John Anderson . 195 

O My Luve's Like a Red, Red Rose . . .185 

To a Mouse 234 

Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon . . 187 

Byron, Lord, 1788-1824. 

All for Love 195 

Elegy 202 

Elegy on Thyrza 209 

On the Castle of Chlllon 288 

She Walks in Beauty Like the Night . . .183 

There Be None of Beauty's Daughters . . 192 

When We Two Parted 188 

Youth and Age 317 

Calverley, C. S., 1831-1884. 

Companions 302 

Campbell, T., 1779-1844. 

The Soldier's Dream 328 

Battle of the Baltic 59 

Earl March Look'd on His Dying Child . . 32 

Hohenlinden 55 

Lord Ullin's Daughter 20 

Ode to Winter 350 

Song to the Evening Star 229 

The Beech Tree's Petition 251 

The River of Life 266 

To the Evening Star 228 

Ye Mariners of England 257 

Clough, A. H., 1819-1861. 

Say Not the Struggle Nought Availeth . . 272 

Where Lies the Land? 271 

Coleridge, S. T., 1772-1834. 

Kubla Khan 334 

Love 36 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner . . . 100 

Youth and Age 319 

Collins, W., 1721-1759. 

Ode Written in 1746 223 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 495 

Cunningham, A., 1784-1842. page 
A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea . . . .174 

Dobson, A., 1840-. 

Prose and Rhyme 309 

Emerson, R. W., 1803-1882. 

Concord Hymn 256 

Gray, T., 1715-1771. 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard . . 203 

Henley, W. E., 1849-1903. 

With Strawberries . 310 

Herrick, R., 1591-1674. 

Counsel to Girls 176 

Hogg, J., 1770-1835. 

A Boy's Song . . . . ' . . . .224 

Holmes, O. W., 1809-1894. 

Contentment 307 

The Chambered Nautilus 232 

The Last Leaf 296 

Hood, T., 1799-1845. 

Past and Present 314 

The Bridge of Sighs 217 

The Death Bed 201 

Hunt, L., 1784-1859. 

Jenny Kissed Me 311 

Jonson, B., 1573-1637. 

To Celia 184 

Keats, J., 1795-1821. 

Bright Star! Would I Were Steadfast as Thou 

Art 284 

Happy Insensibility 326 

La Belle Dame sans Merci 30 

Ode on a Grecian Urn 357 

Ode to a Nightingale 354 

Ode to Autumn 349 

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer . . 278 

The Eve of St. Agnes 87 

The Human Seasons 287 



496 INDEX OF AUTHORS 

Keats, J. — Continued. PAGE 

The Mermaid Tavern 336 

The Realm of Fancy 331 

The Terror of Death 284 

To One Who Has Been Long in City Pent . 281 

Kingsley, C, 1819-1875. 

Clear and Cool 227 

Ode to the Northeast Wind 225 

The Sands of Dee 41 



Lamb, C, 1775-1834. 

Hester 208 

The Old Familiar Faces 312 

Lamb, M., 1764-1847. 

In Memoriam 202 

Landor, W. S., 1775-1864. 

On His 75th Birthday 273 

On Southey's Death 200 

Locker, F., 1821-1895. 

My Mistress's Boots 303 

Longfellow, H. W., 1807-1882. 

The Wreck of the Hesperus 27 

Lovelace, Col. R., 1618-1658. 

To Lucasta on Going to the Wars . . . 186 
Lowell, J. R., 1819-1891. 

The Courtin' 292 

Lyte, H. F., 1793-1847. 

Agnes 213 

Macaulay, T. B., 1800-1859. 

The Battle of Naseby 72 

Milton, J., 1608-1674. 

II Penseroso 344 

L'Allegro 339 

On His Blindness 282 

On the Late Massacre in Piedmont . . . 283 

Moore, T., 1779-1852. 

Echo 194 

Pro Patria Mori 258 

The Journey Onwards 316 

The Light of Other Days 313 

The Young May Moon 191 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 497 

Pope, A., 1688-1744. PAGE 

The Rape of the Lock 147 

Praed, W. M., 1802-1839. 

A Letter of Advice 298 

Rossetti, C. G., 1830-1894. 

Uphill . 276 

Rossetti, D. G., 1828-1882. 

Sibylla Palmifera 286 

Scott, Sir W., 1771-1832. 

A Serenade . . . . . . . 185 

Coronach 216 

Datur Hora Quieti 327 

Hunting Song 173 

Lochinvar 39 

Rosabelle 33 

The Pride of Youth 32 

The Rover 192 

The Outlaw 49 

Shakspere, W., 1564-1616. 

A Consolation 281 

Hark, Hark! the Lark 186 

It Was a Lover and His Lass 177 

To His Love 282 

Under the Greenwood Tree 176 

Who Is Sylvia? 182 

Shelley, P. B., 1792-1822. 

A Dirge 329 

A Dream of the Unknown 325 

I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle Maiden . . .196 

Love's Phiiosophv 193 

Music When Soft Voices Die .... 330 

Ode to the West Wind 352 

One Word Is Too Often Profaned . . .190 

Ozymandias of Egypt 287 

Stanzas Written in Dejection Near Naples . 324 

The Flight of Love 315 

The Indian Serenade 182 

The Invitation 246 

The Poet's Dream 335 

The Recollection 248 



498 INDEX OF AUTHORS 

Shelley, P. B. — Continued. page 

To a Lady, with a Guitar 337 

To a Skylark 235 

To the Moon 242 

To the Night ...<..... 243 

Threnos 329 

Sidney, Sir P., 1554-1586. 

Sleep 285 

Stevenson, R. L., 1845-1894. 

Requiem 277 

Southey, R., 1774-1843. 

After Blenheim 62 

Suckling, Sir J., 1609-1641. 

Constancy 292 

Encouragements to a Lover 301 

Tennyson, A., 1809-1892. 

Break, Break, Break 313 

Lady Clare 22 

The Charge of the Light Brigade ... 58 

The Eagle 241 

The Revenge 72 

Thackeray, W. M., 1811-1863. 

The Cane-Bottomed Chair . . . . • . 305 

Whitman, W., 1819-1892. 

Captain! My Captain! 215 

Whittier, J. G., 1807-1892. 

Barbara Frietchie 69 

Wolfe, C, 1791-1823. 

The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna . 56 

Wotton, Sir H., 1568-1639. 

Character of a Happy Life 265 

Wordsworth, W., 1770-1850. 

A Lesson 267 

A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal . . . .199 

By the Sea .278 

Desideria 290 

England and Switzerland, 1802 . . . . 283 

Glen-Almain, the Narrow Glen .... 214 

1 Travell'd Among Unknown Men . . . 194 

Laodamia 44 

London, 1802 290 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 499 

Wordsworth, W. — Continued. PAGE 

Lucy Gray 25 

My Heart Leaps up When I Behold . . . 255 

Nature and the Poet 244 

Ode to Duty 358 

Ode on Intimations of Immortality . . . 360 

On the Extinction of the Venetian Republic . 289 
She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways . .197 

She was a Phantom of Delight .... 189 

Simon Lee, the Old Huntsman .... 321 

The Daffodils 230 

The Education of Nature 198 

The Inner Vision 286 

The Reaper 254 

The Reverie of Poor Susan 320 

The Same 291 

The Two April Mornings 221 

The World Is Too Much with Us . . . .279 

To Sleep 285 

To the Cuckoo 240 

To the Daisy 231 

To the Highland Girl of Inversneyde . . 252 

To the Skylark 239 

Upon Westminster Bridge, Sept. 3, 1802 . . 288 
When I Have Borne in Memory What Has 

Tamed 291 

Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge . 289 

Written in Early Spring 268 



INDEX OF TITLES 



A Boy's Song .... 


Hogg 


. 224 


A Consolation .... 


Shakspere 


. 281 


A Dirge 


Shelley 


. 329 


A Dream of the Unknown 


Shelley 


. 325 


A Lesson 


Wordsworth 


. 267 


A Letter of Advice . 


Praed 


. 298 


A Man's a Man for A' That 


Burns 


. 269 


A Serenade .... 


Scott 


. 185 


A Slumber Did My Spirit Seal 


Wordsworth 


. 199 


A Wet Sheet and a Flowing 






Sea 


Cunningham 


. 174 


After Blenheim 


Southey 


. 62 


Agnes 


Lyte 


. 213 


All for Love .... 


Byron 


. 195 


Bannockbtjrn .... 


Burns 


. 259 


Barbara Frietchie 


Whittier 


. 69 


Battle of the Baltic 


Campbell 


. 59 


Bicycling Song 


Beeching 


. 175 


Break, Break, Break 


Tennyson 


. 313 


Bright Star! Would I Were 






Steadfast as Thou Art 


Keats 


. 284 


By the Sea . . 


Wordsworth 


. 278 


Cavalier Tunes 


Browning 


. 262 


I. Marching Along 






II. Give a Rouse 






III. Boot and Saddle 






Character of a Happy Life 


Wotton 


. 265 


Clear and Cool .... 


King si ey . 


. 227 


Companions .... 


Calverley . 


. 302 


Concord Hymn .... 


Emerson . 


. 256 


Constancy 


Suckling 


. . 292 


Contentment .... 


Holmes 


. 307 



500 



INDEX OF TITLES 



501 



coronach 
Counsel to Girls 

Datur Hora Quieti 
Desideria 



Earl March Look'd on His 

Dying Child 

Echo 

Elegy 

Elegy on Thyrza 

Elegy Written in a Country 

Churchyard 
Encouragements to a Lover 
England and Switzerland, 

1802 

Evelyn Hope .... 



Glen-Almain, 
Glen 



the Narrow 



Happy Insensibility 
Hark ! Hark ! the Lark . 
Herve Riel .... 

Hester 

Highland Mary . 
hohenlinden 
Home-Thouhgts, from Abroad 
Home-Thoughts, from the Sea 
How Do I Love Thee 
How They Brought the Good 
News from Ghent to Aix 
Hunting Song .... 



Scott 
Herrick 


PAGE 
216 

176 


Scott 
Wordsioorth 


327 
290 


Campbell . 
Moore 
Byron 
Byron 


32 
194 
202 
209 


Gray 
Suckling 


203 
301 


Wordsworth 
Browning 


283 
211 


Wordsworth 


214 


Keats 

Shakspere 

Browning 

Lamb, C. 

Burns 

Campbell 

Broioning 

Broioning 

Browning, E. B. 


326 

186 

64 

208 

200 

55 

260 

260 

. 280 


Broioning 
Scott 


42 
173 



I Fear Thy Kisses, Gentle 
Maiden .... 

I Travelled Among Unknown 

Men 

If Thou Must Love Me 
Incident of the French Camp 
In Memoriam .... 

II Penseroso .... 
It Was a Lover and His Lass 



Shelley 



196 



Wordsioorth 


194 


Broioning , E. B. 


279 


Browning 


54 


Lamb, M. 


202 


Milton 


344 


Shakspere 


177 



502 



INDEX OF TITLES 



Jean 


Burns 


Jenny Kissed Me 


Hunt 


John Anderson 


Burns 


Johnie Armstrong 




Kubla Khan .... 


Coleridge 


La Belle Dame Sans Merci 


Keats 


Lady Clare .... 


Tennyson 


L'Allegro 


Milton 


Laodamia 


Wordsworth 


LOCHINVAR .... 


Scott 


London, 1802 .... 


Wordsworth 


Lord Randal .... 




Lord Ullin's Daughter . 


Campbell 


Love 


Coleridge 


Love's Philosophy 


Shelley 


Lucy Gray .... 


Wordsworth 


Music, When Soft Voices Die 


Shelley 


My Heart Leaps up When I 




Behold .... 


Wordsworth 


My Last Duchess 


Browning 


My Mistress's Boots 


Locker . . 


Nature and the Poet 


Wordsworth 


Captain ! My Captain ! . 


Whitman 


My Luve's Like a Red, Red 




Rose ..... 


Burns 


Ode on Intimations of Im- 




mortality . . . . 


Wordsworth 


Ode on a Grecian Urn . 


Keats 


Ode to a Nightingale 


Keats 


Ode to Autumn 


Keats 


Ode to Duty .... 


Wordsworth 


Ode to the Northeast Wind 


Kingsley 


Ode to the West Wind . 


Shelley 


Ode to Winter 


Campbell 


Ode Written in 1746 


Collins 


One Word Is Too Often Pro- 




faned 


Shelley 


On First Looking into Chap- 




man's Homer 


Keats 



INDEX OF TITLES 



503 



On His Blindness 


Milton 


On His 75th Birthday . 


Landor 


On Southey's Death 


Landor 


On the Castle of Chillon 


Byron 


On the Extinction of the 




Venetian Republic . 


Wordsworth 


On the Late Massacre in 




Piedmont .... 


Milton 


OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT 


Shelley 


Past and Present 


Hood 


Pheidippides .... 


Browning 


Pro Patria Mori 


Moore 


Prose and Rhyme 


Dobson 


Prospice 


Browning 


Requiem 


Stevenson 


Requiescat 


Arnold 


Robin Hood's Death 




Rosabelle 


Scott 


Say Not the Struggle Nought 




Availeth .... 


Clough 


She Dwelt Among the Un- 




trodden Ways 


Wordsworth 


She Walks in Beauty Like 




the Night .... 


Byron 


She Was a Phantom of De- 




light 


Wordsworth 


Sibylla Palmifera 


Bossetti 


Simon Lee, the Old Hunts- 




man 


Wordsworth 


Sir Patrick Spens 




Sleep 


Sidney 


SOHRAB AND RuSTUM 


Arnold 


Song to the Evening Star 


Campbell 


Stanzas 


Bronte 


Stanzas Written in Dejec- 




tion near Naples 


Shelley 


Thanatopsis .... 


Bryant 


The Bailiff's Daughter of Is- 




lington , 





504 



INDEX OF TITLES 







PAGE 


The Battle of Naseby . 


Macaulay 


. 78 


The Battle of Otterburn 




7 


The Beech Tree's Petition 


Campbell 


. 251 


The Bridge of Sighs 


Hood 


. 217 


The Burial of Sir John Moor] 


: 




AT CORUNKA 


Wolfe 


. 56 


The Cane-Bottomed Chair 


Thackeray 


. 305 


The Chambered Nautilus 


Holmes 


. 232 


Tlie Charge of the Ligh' 


c 




Brigade 


Tennyson 


. 58 


The Courtin' 


Lowell 


. 292 


The Daffodils . 


Wordsworth 


. 230 


The Death Bed 


Hood 


. 201 


The Eagle 


Tennyson 


. 241 


The Education of Nature 


Wordsworth 


. 193 


The Eve of St. Agnes 


Keats 


. 87 


The Flight of Love 


Shelley 


. 315 


The Human Seasons 


Keats 


. 287 


The Indian Serenade 


Shelley 


. 182 


The Inner Vision 


Wordsworth 


. 286 


The Invitation . 


Shelley 


. 246 


The Journey Onwards 


Moore 


. 316 


The Last Leaf 


Holmes 


. 296 


The Lost Leader 


Browning 


. 261 


The Light of Other Days 


Moore 


. 313 


The Mermaid Tavern 


Keats 


. 336 


The Old Familiar Faces 


Lamb, C. 


. 312 


The Outlaw 


Scott 


. 49 


The Poet's Dream 


Shelley 


. 335 


The Pride of Youth 


Scott 


. 32 


The Rape of the Lock 


Pope 


. 147 


The Realm of Fancy 


Keats 


. 331 


The Reaper 


Wordsworth 


. 254 


There Be None of Beauty's 






Daughters 


Byron 


. 192 


The Recollection 


Shelley 


. 248 


The Revenge 


Tennyson 


72 


The Reverie of Poor Susa> 


r Wordsworth 


. 320 


The Rime of the Ancien' 


r 




Mariner 


Coleridge 


. 100 


The River of Life . 


Campbell 


. 266 


The Rover .... 


Scott . 


. 192 


The Same .... 


Wordsworth 


. 291 


The Sands of Dee . 


Kingsley . 


. 41 



INDEX OF TITLES 



505 



The Soldier's Dream 

The Terror of Death 

The Twa Corbies 

The Two April Mornings 

The World Is Too Much with 

Us . 

The Wreck or the Hesperus 
The Young May Moon 
To a Lady, with a Guitar 
To a Mouse 
To a Skylark 
To a Waterfowl 
To Celia . 

To Lucasta on Going to 

Wars 
To Marguerite 
To His Love 
To One Who Has Been Long 

in City Pent 
To Sleep 

To the Cuckoo . 
To the Daisy 
To the Evening Star 
To the Highland Girl of In 

VERSNEYDE 

To the Moon 
To the Night 
To the Skylark 
Threnos 

Under .the Greenwood Tree 

Up at a Villa — Down in the 

City 

LTp-HlLL 

Upon West3iinster Bridge, 
September 3, 1802 



Campbell . 
Keats 

Wordsworth 

Wordsworth 

Longfellow 

Moore 

Shelley 

Burns 

Shelley 

Bryant 

J orison 

Lovelace . 

Arnold 

Shakspere 

Keats . . 
Wordsworth 
Wordsworth 
Wordsworth 
Campbell 

Wordsworth 

Shelley 

Shelley 

Wordsworth 

Shelley 

Shakspere 

Browning 
Rossetti, C. G. 

Wordsworth 



page 

328 

284 

14 

221 

2T0 
27 
191 
337 
234 
235 
241 
184 

186 
271 

282 

281 
285 
240 
231 
228 

252 
242 
243 
239 
329 

176 

178 
276 

288 



When I Have Borne in Mem- 
ory What Has Tamed . Wordsivorth 
When We Two Parted . . Byron 
Where Lies the Land? . . Clough 
Who Is Sylvia? .... Shakspere 
Within King's College Cha- 
pel, Cambridge . . . Wordsworth 



291 

188 
271 

182 

289 



506 



INDEX OF TITLES 



With Strawberries . 
Written in Early Spring 



Henley 
Wordsworth 



page 
310 

268 



Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie 

Doon .... 
Ye Mariners of England 
Young Waters 
Youth and Age 
Youth and Age 



Burns 
Campbell 



Byron 
Coleridge 



187 
257 
15 
317 
319 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 



PAGE 

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound 20 

A child's a plaything for an hour 202 

A flock of sheep that leisurely pass by 285 

A slumber did my spirit seal 199 

A weary lot is thine, fair maid 192 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea 174 

About Yule, when the wind blew cule 15 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh 185 

All thoughts, all passions, all delights 36 

And the first grey of morning fill'd the east 122 

And thou art dead, as young and fair 209 

Ariel to Miranda : — Take 337 

Art thou pale for weariness 242 

As I was walking all alone 14 

As slow our ship her foamy track 316 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay 72 

At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears. . . .320 
Avenge, O Lord! thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones ..283 

Beautiful Evelyn Hope is dead 211 

Behold her, single in the field 254 

Best and brightest, come away 246 

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away 263 

Break, break, break 313 

Bright Star! would I were steadfast as thou art 284 

By the rude bridge that arched the flood 256 

Clear and cool, clear and cool 227 

Come, Sleep: O Sleep ! the certain knot of peace 285 

Drink to me only with thine eyes 184 

Does the road wind up-hill all the way 276 

Earl March look'd on his dying child 32 

Earth has not anything to show more fair 288 

507 



508 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind 288 

Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky 239 

Ever let the fancy roam 331 

Fear death? to feel the fog in my throat 276 

First I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock 80 

Friends, hear the words my wondering thoughts would 

say 200 

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year 287 

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may 176 

Gem of the crimson-colour'd Even 228 

God made sech nights, all white an' still 292 

Had I but plenty of money 178 

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit ' 235 

Half a league, half a league 58 

Hark, Hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings 186 

He clasps the crag with hooked hands 241 

He is gone on the mountain 216 

Hence, loathed Melancholy 339 

Hence, vain deluding Joys 344 

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways 280 

How happy is he born and taught 265 

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest 223 

How sweet the answer Echo makes 194 



I arise from dreams of Thee 182 

I dream'd that as I wander'd by the way 325 

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden 196 

I have had playmates, I have had companions 312 

I heard a thousand blended notes 268 

I know not of what we pondered 302 

I met a traveller from an antique land 287 

I remember, I remember 314 

I saw her in childhood 213 

I saw him once before 296 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he 42 

I strove with none, for none was worth the strife 273 

I travell'd among unknown men 194 

I wander'd lonely as a cloud 230 

I was thy neighbor once, thou rugged Pile 244 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 509 

PAGE 

If thou must love me, let it be for nought 279 

Is there for honest Poverty 269 

In a drear-nighted December 326 

In tattered old slippers that toast at the bars 305 

In the sweet shire of Cardigan 321 

In this still place, remote from men 214 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 334 

It fell about the Lammas tide 7 

It is an ancient Mariner 100 

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free 278 

It was a lover and his lass 177 

It was a summer evening 62 

It was the time when lilies blow 22 

It was the schooner Hesperus 27 

Jennie kissed me when we met 311 

John Anderson my jo, John 195 

Just for a handful of silver he left us 261 

Kentish Sir Byng stood for his King 262 

King Charles, and who'll do him right now 263 

Little I ask; my wants are few 307 

Milton ! thou shouldst be living at this hour 291 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 286 

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold 278 

Music, when soft voices die 330 

My heart aches and a drowsy numbness pains 354 

My heart leaps up when I behold 255 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the Northwest died 

away 260 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note 56 

Now the last day of many days 248 

O blithe new-comer ! I have heard 240 

O Brignall banks are wild and fair 49 

O Captain, My Captain! our fearful trip is done 215 

O Friend ! I know not which way I must look 290 

O leave this barren spot to me 251 

O listen, listen, ladies gay 33 

O Mary, go and call the cattle home 41 



510 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

O my Luve's like a red, red rose 185 

O talk not to me of a name great in story 195 

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms 30 

O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son 17 

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being 352 

O World! O Life! O Time 329 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw 187 

Of Nelson and the North 59 

Often rebuked, yet always back returning 268 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray 25 

Oft in the stilly night 313 

Oh, to be in England 260 

Oh snatch'd away in beauty's bloom 202 

Oh ! wherefore come ye forth, in triumph from the 

North 78 

Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west 39 

On a Poet's lips I slept 335 

Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee 289 

One more unfortunate 217 

One word is too often profaned 190 

On Linden, when the sun was low 55 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen hundred ninety- 
two 64 

Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd. .328 
Out upon it, I have loved 292 

Proud Maisie is in the wood 32 

Rough Wind, that moanest loud 329 

St. Agnes' Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was 87 

Say not the struggle nought availeth 272 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled 259 

Season of mist and yellow fruitfulness 349 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways -. 197 

She walks in beauty like the night 183 

She was a Phantom of delight 189 

Souls of Poets dead and gone ...336 

Star that bringest home the bee 229 

Stern Daughter of the Voice of God 358 

Strew on her roses, roses 197 

Surprised by joy — impatient as the wind 290 

Sweet Highland Girl, a very shower 252 

Swiftly walk over the western wave 243 



INDEX OF FIRST LINES 511 

PAGE 

Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense 289 

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind 186 

That's my last Duchess painted on the wall 51 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day 203 

The fountains mingle with the river 193 

The King sits in Dumferling toune 3 

The more we live, more brief appear 266 

There be none of beauty's daughters 192 

There dwelt a man in faire Westmereland 4 

There is a Flower, the lesser Celandine 267 

There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes 

away 317 

There was a youth, and a well belov'd youth 18 

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream . . . .360 

The sun is warm, the sky is clear 324 

The sun upon the lake is low 327 

The world is too much with us; late and soon 279 

They nearly strike me dumb 303 

The young May moon is beaming, love 191 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign 232 

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness 357 

Three years she grew in sun and shower 198 

To him who in the love of nature holds 273 

To one who has been long in city pent 281 

Two voices are there; one is of the Sea 283 

Under the arch of life, where Love and death 286 

Under the greenwood tree 176 

Under the wide and starry sky 277 

Up from the meadows rich with corn 69 

Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying 319 

Waken, lords and ladies gay 173 

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie 234 

Welcome, wild Northeaster 225 

We walk'd along, while bright and red 221 

We watch'd her breathing thro' the night 201 

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs 147 

When first the fiery mantled Sun 350 

When he who adores thee has left but the name 258 

When I consider how my life is spent 282 

When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes 281 



512 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

PAGE 

When I have borne in memory what has tamed 291 

When I have fears that I may cease to be 284 

When in the chronicle of wasted time 282 

When maidens such as Hester die 208 

When Robin Hood and Little John 11 

When the lamp is shattered 315 

When the roads are heavy with mire and rut 309 

When we two parted 188 

Where lies the land to which the ship would go 271 

Where the pools are bright and deep 224 

Whither, 'midst falling dew 241 

Who is Sylvia? What is she 182 

Why so pale and wan, fond lover 301 

With lifted feet, hands still 175 

With little here to do or see 231 

With sacrifice before the rising morn 44 

With strawberries we filled a tray . . . . 310 

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon 187 

Ye banks and braes and streams around 200 

Ye Mariners of England 257 

Yes ! in the sea of life enisled 271 

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon 54 

You tell me you're promised a lover 298 



JUN 28 1909 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




013 979 295 6 



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